


Ses vrais amis

by erimies



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erimies/pseuds/erimies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Sly could not regret his life. If that night had never happened, would he ever have met Bentley and Murray? Life was an adventure, and he had a destiny. A rewrite of the first game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - My family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sly was born to a great family, a lineage he could trace across thousands of years. Of course he ends up being the last of them. Narrative can be cruel.

Sly Cooper was very young indeed when his father first sat him on his knee and told him of his heritage.

(That conversation stuck with him ever clearly for the rest of his life and was much treasured, for an owl's claws ripped that life to pieces soon after. He didn't have many memories left of that early age, could only recall a blur of vague happiness.)

A shiver of excitement had ran down his spine then, for what little boy did not like to hear he was special, born for greatness? He was to be the next link in an unbroken lineage that had persisted for  _millennia_ , an heir to a clan of extraordinary thieves.

It was a measure of worth and ability, his father had said, to aim for those who thought themselves above and untouchable by law, who assumed they could abuse others without consequences.

The Coopers had  _honour_.

And there was no challenge nor fun in stealing from ordinary people.

That night, he had first shouldered the weight of his family history and the expectations of his ancestors. Yet, it felt not like a burden. His father had puffed his pipe and smiled proudly.

(Later, much later in his life, Sly would come to learn that his father had left more than just Clockwerk out of his tales. Later yet, he would find that this was for a good reason, for not everyone was blessed with companions as good and trustworthy as Bentley and Murray.)

There might have been a tiny sliver of sadness, uninvited and fleeting, for his dreams of being a police officer, a trapeze artist or a spy were now forever beyond his reach. His fate had been set before he was even born, a contract signed by his blood.

And yet, those thoughts had been weeded out with very little pain, having not had time to grow deep roots in his heart. If he ever remembered his regret later in life, he thought it silly, for was he not an exceptional climber, were his fingers not agile and fast, was he not able to squeeze through impossibly small openings, to walk unseen by being and beast?

Sly liked the glimmer of gold and jewels too much, appreciated the beauty of priceless stolen artefacts too deeply, loved the thrill of stealing far more than honest labour and sweat. Thousands of years of thieving were in his blood and would not be denied.

It was his fair fortune that the family business suited him well.

(Later, many years later, after he had accomplished what his ancestors had strived for countless centuries, he would realise what his father had done: why he had been told of his heritage that young, so young he did not yet doubt the word and will of his parents. There was no bitterness in the thought.)

Not long after and as soon as Sly could read, his father put a precious family heirloom in his hands: an ancient leather-bound book with heavy gilded letters adorning the cover.

Thievius Raccoonus was in no way a book to be ignored. The tome had a certain heavy presence to it, as if it literally carried the weight of his clan's history. Sly felt it tingle against his fingers and imagined that it was the spirits of his ancestors, reaching to greet him across time and space.

Some of the pages he merely glanced at, as it was still much too soon for him to learn the more advanced moves. Certain other pages his father declined to show him (and those were probably about Clockwerk, those  _must_ have been about Clockwerk, was a stray thought that hit him on their way back to Paris from Krack-Karov Volcano).

For some time yet, life was good.

 

* * *

 

It was not to last.

Later, he would think it a cruel coincidence that it all happened on the very night he was to fully inherit the book. Huddling in that tiny closet, he could only wait, powerless, as his world crashed around him. There were five intruders, all different sizes and shapes. He could not see much in the low light, but it was easy to tell the attackers had the upper hand.

Sly retreated to the far end of the closet, not wanting to see, but he could not help hearing even when he pressed his palms against his ears. He eventually lost track of the screams and the crashes, just desperately waiting for it all to end.

Then, there was silence.

It took Sly several seconds to realise it was over. For a fleeting moment hope blossomed bright inside him. Then, several decidedly foreign voices and heavy steps echoed through the room. Familiar dread filled him again, now mixed with despair. The outcome of the fight was obvious enough.

Loud bangs and crashes echoed through the room now; the intruders seemed to be looking for something. Sly forced himself to move back to the door and look. His eyes widened in an entirely new horror.

 _No_.

There lay forced open the most secure, sturdy vault of his home, which held only one item, as precious as it was irreplaceable. One brute wrenched the book's covers open and tore the pages off with no particular regard, separating the it into five pieces. It was almost like physical pain to watch and keep silent.

They had already taken his parents. Now, they stole his legacy.

There was nothing to do but watch, hoping against all hope they wouldn't find him too. He was helplessly, desperately aware he was at the mercy of fate... and luck.

 

* * *

 

Apparently fate  _had_  decided to cut Sly some slack, or he'd somehow gained Lady Luck's capricious favour.

He kept still inside his closet long after the intruders had left, mind blank and reeling with shock. What had happened was too sudden, too violent and extreme. It might have taken minutes or hours to put his thoughts into some sort of order.

Eventually, he did. His every limb seemed to tremble and it was a laborious affair to even rise to his feet and leave the closet. The world lurched and spun in circles around him as he made his way to the discarded remains of Thievius Raccoonus.

He didn't know how long he stared at the empty covers that were left of his family heirloom, stranded on the floor, violated and ruined.

In the end, he picked them up and went looking for his father. By then, his trembling at least had abated and the world deigned to keep still. He felt hardly better for it.

His home had been a maze of carpeted corridors and lovely, big rooms, filled with beautiful furniture and many priceless artefacts. Most everything was now broken or stolen; glass, porcelain and wood cracked and splintered beneath his feet. The noise was deafening in a house that was otherwise silent as a tomb.

He found his father on the floor of the living room, his form still and broken. The man had always held an impression of contained speed, alike a coiled spring, ever ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. None of that energy was left now. His stillness had something very final about it.

Sly curled up against his chest and sobbed bitterly. The warmth of his father's blood was already waning.

 

* * *

 

Sly could never quite remember much of the following days. He had been taken to a police station for questioning (and wasn't it a peculiar thing to be in the police car unrestrained; he wasn't supposed to be the  _victim_ ).

The room was messy and in need of repair; the file cabinets on the far end were all but falling apart. There was a single fluorescent lamp hanging from the ceiling, its light bright and pallid. Every now and then it flickered with an ominous zap.

Sly was curled up on a plastic chair, next to a desk covered by papers and office equipment. There was a thick woollen blanket on his shoulders and someone had handed him a mug of hot chocolate, which had been abandoned to cool untouched. Adults were talking nearby, their voices blurred together into meaningless background noise.

Sly gripped tighter at the cane, the only thing that seemed to ground him to reality. Heartbeat erratic and unbearably loud in his ears, Sly stared at his feet, yet did not see them but the ghastly image of his father, laying still on the floor, crimson blood slowly soaking in the carpet.

(Expensive one, his father had stolen it for his mother, it was of  _excellent_ Arabian craft, his mother had  _loved_  it, now ruined and bloody like his fa-)

Sly blinked back furious, scorching tears that threatened to fall, trying not to sniffle and pulled closer to the cane clutched in his arms. He had that heirloom left, at least. He would yet have his revenge, too.

They had made one mistake, Sly was still alive. It would cost them.

Sly clung to that thought. He would not be a helpless eight year old child forever. He was a Cooper and he would one day take back what was his.

(Gripped as he was by his grief, Sly could never have anticipated he was about to meet the two most important people in his life.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to do this thing where I write stories with premises that are at least a little derided. Self insert, time travel and now (more or less) canon novelisation.
> 
> That said, this will be at least somewhat AU. There are many things that simply don't work well in a written story, mostly things that have to do with game mechanics. There's also the fact that I don't want to bore people with rehashing things exactly as they are. More of a case of 'took a different route to the same goal' than going somewhere else entirely, however.


	2. Operation: Cookie Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sly meets Bentley and Murray.

 

Should anyone have cared to ask for the opinion of the orphaned and the unfortunate, the Happy Camper Orphanage did not live up to its name.

Nowadays, the once grand manor was ragged and rickety and falling apart, sulking precariously on the top of a hill. Moss crept up the walls in a slow green conquest and miserable, hardy weeds covered the yard. The interior was similarly falling apart, slowly deteriorating when no one bothered to repair what broke.

And yet, it was people who made the place unhappy; the headmistress in particular. Mrs. Puff was an unpleasant sort of bird on a good day and detested all children with a particular petty vehemence. It was an ill turn of events indeed that had once placed her in charge of the place.

 

* * *

 

On that Tuesday, the sky hid behind a thick mat of clouds with an occasional ray of sunlight that rinsed the world in gold and fire. Even that could not paint the orphanage in a flattering light. Sly looked through the police car window and disliked the place in an instant.

Unbidden and unwanted, he remembered his own beautiful house in the countryside, his last sight of it with broken windows and unhinged door in the harsh blue of the police signal lights. He would never go near that broken home again, he knew, but in his mind he could not seem to stop again and again tracing his bitter steps to find what became of his parents, could still smell blood and hear the  _crunch_  of porcelain and glass under his feet.

The motor was turned off and the sudden lack of noise startled him out of the dark place his mind wanted to dwell in. The silence was heavy and tense and Sly climbed out of the car, quick feet, lest it fester to something unpleasant.

The officer who had escorted him was a stern-looking German shepherd with stony features and a flawless posture. He was not unfriendly, per se, but he  _was_  curtly and stoic and always watched Sly from the corner of his eye.

The police had taken decent care of him and it was good, but he did not forget for a moment that they had done so out of duty - they had no love for Coopers. Neck prickling, he almost ran the meandering path to the front door.

(Sly always could tell when someone was watching him, a family instinct so intrinsic that he didn't remember a time he had  _not_  felt it.)

It was a relief to hear the car start again when he reached the door.

He wiped his feet on the doormat, steadying his breath and trying to force his uncooperative hand to take the handle and enter. This was the last moment he could cling to his lost family, last moment before he had to build a new life and fill it with new people.

The moment passed and he pushed the door open. It protested with a tired groan, but yielded eventually. Behind was a long, tall hallway with many closed doors and a long dusty carpet. There was a faint smell of vomit and faulty lavatories in the air.

But there was also noise there, and signs of life.

The flat remains of a pierced football were stranded in a corner; an inside out pair of shorts had been thrown over one fluorescent lamp; muddy footprints ran across the carpet and building blocks littered the floor.

Some of the heaviness of his heart eased. Maybe he could make some friends. He had never had those before.

 

* * *

 

Bentley often thought it was rather unfair how much of a bully magnet he was. Small of stature, asthmatic, near-sighted and unusually intelligent, nearly everything about him seemed to scream "punch me!" to the local aggressors.

Most other children were afraid of getting in the line of fire themselves and because of that he spent most of his time reading alone in some hidden corner.

At least Murray sometimes kept him company. Birds of a feather do flock together, outcasts especially so. Always shy and somewhat insecure, Murray was of no help if their persecutors were to appear and was usually their victim  _nombre deux_ , tormented for being large and less than bright, a cruel and ironic contrast to Bentley's plight.

Today was no exception. As always, he hadn't done anything to gather attention but they had spotted him anyway. He and Murray were now surrounded in an inconvenient corner in the second floor, nowhere near authority.

His heartbeat sped up and cold sweat gathered under his shell. Already he could feel his breath getting more reluctant and he  _hated_  his asthma, hated that his lungs betrayed him when he needed them most.

The leader of the pack was a rhino with no brains to speak of, but malevolence he had in excess and a stocky build as well. He also had two lackeys, who were clearly just that even at this age, two wily, wiry lizards with sharp tongues and sly eyes.

The tall green one laughed. It came out as an unpleasant, clucking hiss. "Where are you going? It's not like you're expected anywhere, only fatso likes you. Even your ma and pa didn't want you!"

The brown and stocky lizard hissed, his spit splattering on Bentley's face. "No one  _else_  was left here as an egg! You musta already been real ugly if they didn't even wait till you hatch."

An old insult and it still stung fiercely. Bentley was glad his glasses were like the bottoms of Coca-Cola bottles, impossible to see through. He closed his eyes and braced himself, hoping they wouldn't break the pair this time.

_Breathe, just breathe -_

 

* * *

 

Sly had been trying to find his room when he ran across the commotion that was three children ganging up on two others. At that sight, some of the anger he had suppressed, fury that had festered for days, rose and burned like bile.

 _Cowards!_ an inner voice hissed, resentful for the unknown children, resentful for his parents.  _Ganging up on others...!_

He had yet to grow into his cane, had never fought anyone before, didn't know any of these people. None of that mattered. On some long-buried instinct, Sly leaped, the motion smooth and fluid.

His body was young and awkward still, but in that moment a shadow of his future grace could be seen.

 

* * *

 

There were screams and thuds, but the expected hit never struck home. Bentley opened his eyes cautiously, only to see that a fight had already broken out and ended. A new child was standing in front of him, holding a cane larger than he was.

When the bullies had disappeared around the corner he turned to face Bentley, ringed tail trailing behind. Even though he had to be about the same age as Bentley and Murray, Bentley already saw the frame of an athlete, the potential for strength.

"Are you okay? What's your name? I'm Sly. Sly  _Cooper_!" he said, obvious pride in his voice. His grin was the kind that radiated confidence, managed to reassure that everything was under control.

The air was far easier to breathe now.

Bentley smiled back hesitantly and adjusted his glasses.

"My, ah, my name is Bentley. Thank you for defending us," he said and offered his hand to Sly, who took it with the enthusiasm of someone who had never experienced a handshake before.

While Bentley tried to discreetly rub his circulation back, Sly turned to the third member of their little group, the question written on his face.

There was a pause.

"I'm Murray," was the eventual offering, almost too quiet to hear. As the silence stretched on and grew awkward, Sly began slowly bouncing on his heels.

By chance, Bentley coughed. While it was nothing more than a reflex to clear his poor, long-suffering lungs of dust, it didn't matter. Attention was on him and he fumbled, searching for a topic of discussion.

What he came up with was: "You... seem very proud of your family. Would you tell us about them?"

Cold dread ran under his shell when his brain caught up to his words. Bentley's genius was by no means all-compassing, but did reach in several directions, and he had seen the unmistakable signs of recent stress on Sly's face. Family had to be the worst topic he could have brought up, when this place was an  _orphanage_.

And yet, before he could apologise, Sly perked up and grinned, even as there was pain and conflict also in his eyes. The awkward silence dissipated. "Sure! But let's go somewhere else first. I won't tell family secrets to just  _anyone_ , you know!"

 

* * *

 

They commandeered the orphanage's sheltered, shady attic for a temporary hideout. Around scattered were old cardboard boxes, worn out armchairs and looming high wardrobes, all coated by a thick layer of dust. Several oil paintings had been piled up in a precarious heap that seemed one sneeze away from crumbling down.

The pale, short-lived light of the early evening shone through a window high up the wall. It robbed the room of its colours; leaving long, dark shadows and wan blue behind. It was an entirely appropriate place for Sly's tale of corrupt pharaohs, bloodthirsty pirates and cunning ninja.

Bentley and Murray listened to Sly with very satisfying wide-eyed, rapt attention, gasping at appropriate moments. It was the novelty of storytelling and their keen interest that let Sly enjoy himself, bade him to let aside his grief for the moment.

Even when time came to talk about  _that day_. He spoke of the violence, of his dread, of being helpless and alone. Something poisonous bled out with the words.

"- and one day I'll be old enough and strong enough and I will go and take it back from them! I'll become a master thief and restore my lineage!" he finished, new confidence in his face and posture.

He was emotionally drained, his voice raspy and his throat dry, but his ambition felt more real now that he had spoken it aloud, a  _goal_  instead of a vague pipe dream. The wide amazed eyes of Bentley and Murray were enough to silence the small voice of doubt that had nagged in the back of his head, insisted he might fail.

 _This_  silence was not awkward. Unspoken in the air was the fact that Bentley and Murray were now also part of the tale, by the virtue of having asked and listened.

 

* * *

 

Bentley had often wondered about his future, looming ahead, vague and intimidating. While he had a theoretical choice of profession after his mandatory school years, the fact was that social status and money still made the world go around.

Surely he would not end up with a nine-to-five job selling shoes with the brains he had been blessed with, but what other options were there? Some second rate engineering school and a job designing toasters and washing machines?

Bentley wanted something else, and Sly...

Well, Sly seemed to embody all the romance and adventure that could be found on the other side of the law.

They would certainly not be just any common thieves either (and he  _already_  counted himself and Murray in, didn't he). They wouldn't be the bad guys; they would be like  _heroes_ , working outside the law, taking down people the police couldn't touch.

Bentley found he liked the thought.

Still, in the end it was Murray who spoke the words that set their future.

"Can we come too?"

 

* * *

 

Five weeks after that Sly was in Mrs. Puffin's office yet again, for whatever transgression he had supposedly committed this time. He hadn't paid attention, it might as well have been 'breathing aloud' for all he knew. Certainly 'eating messily' and 'noisy laughter' hadn't ever seemed valid reasons so much as excuses for deliberate cruelty.

He was not paying attention because he was staring at the chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Puffin was eating. From her smug smile, he knew she was doing it on purpose. The sheer pettiness was on a level of its own.

Unknown to her, however, he wasn't miserable or seething in anger. He was calculating.

She might not have been a crime lord, but she was not a  _good_  person.

A valid target.

Once he finally had his sentence (scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, good thing he could borrow Bentley's), he made his escape and joined his friends in their hideout-fort.

"Bentley, I need you to make us a plan. She's eaten those cookies for the last time."

 

* * *

 

Their orphanage worked on a certain schedule. Every night the janitor, known commonly as Scary John, would come in to empty the rubbish bins five minutes after Mrs. Puffin left her office. A narrow window of opportunity, and the only one.

In future, they would have all the gadgets, skill and confidence they would ever need. That day, Sly was yet too small to use his cane and their only method of transportation was the small toy cart they had nicked earlier that week.

The plan and the cart still seemed larger than life. This was  _it_. Their first heist.

The orphanage was different at night. The background cacophony of childish voices was gone, leaving behind the depressing duet of leaky faucets and the creaks and groans of an old house. The shadows made everything threatening and alien.

Sly was in his element. He was no more audible than a mouse, moved through the shadows as if one of them. He stopped behind Mrs. Puffin's door and waited.

It did not take long. She left the room, humming a tune, off to brew her evening cup of tea. Before the door closed behind her, Sly had already slid in, a shadow in his own right.

 _There_ , the target, on top of the shelf. Difficult, but doable. His eyes saw the path.  _Chair, desk, shelf..._

He would have to hide now and wait, but timing was critical and every second counted. Sly crossed the room and opened the latch of the window. Outside, he could just see a flash of red in the bushes where Bentley and Murray waited.

Satisfied, he jumped in the paper bin and covered himself.

It was another odd thing he had noticed about himself - although he took up nearly all room inside and could not possibly cover every inch of himself in rubbish, he was near invisible to anyone as long as he did not move.

Probably a family thing, then.

_Keep still, breathe..._

He waited, far more patient than an eight year old child had any right to be. Waited for her to finish her tea, not peeking, never fidgeting, until she finally rose and turned off the light. The tick of the lock was loud and clear.

Sly waited for the  _click-click-click_  of her high heels to fade and stood up. The moon had risen at this point and shone in the room. He pulled the window up and open and caught the plastic cup that flew in from below. He grinned. Their timing was already impeccable.

"This is Sly. Do you read me?"

"Bentley here. What's your status?"

"I'm in position! Warn me of Scary John if you see lights."

"Roger that! Commence Operation: Cookie Connection. We are ready with the getaway cart. You have approximately 3 minutes and 42 seconds before the janitor comes in."

Sly tied the wire of the cup to his wrist, ready to alert him. Now was the time. He had no experience, but he had talent and affinity. It would have to do. Practice had to come from  _somewhere_  and he had no one to teach him but trial and error.

_Grab the chair, jump, land on desk, watch out for noise-_

The shelf was looming above, three times his height, but he could scale it.

The desk was too heavy to move. This left a two-meter long gap to the shelf. In future it would be nothing, he could jump far greater distances and probably add in a fancy somersault or two. At eight years old, it seemed like a canyon.

Sly leaped.

He almost didn't make it, caught on one ledge lower than he had aimed for, but his grip was sure and the shelf stood still, not minding the extra weight and a different centre of gravity.

(He didn't know the word, but he understood the concept. After all, his family made a living of such things.)

He pulled himself up, up and up. His arms were groaning from the exertion, unused to supporting his weight. Somewhere in the back of his mind an imagined clock was ticking and he knew he was running out of time. But it would be worse to overestimate himself and climb too fast and then find himself with no strength to escape. A heist was only as successful as the getaway.

_Almost there, almost -_

The shelf was sleek and waxed, offered no friction. He almost slipped and cursed and -

 _\- there. Finally._ Sly grinned and pulled the receiver in front of his face; a gesture that would eventually become second nature after Bentley put his degree to use and built them the best wireless communication devices on earth.

He did not have time to speak before Bentley screeched in his ear, shrill and nervous.

"Sly! We see the janitor! What's your status? We need to pull this operation!"

"I'm on it!" came through the muffled voice of Murray. "Hang on guys! We're driving out of here!"

Sly had not thought to untangle the line from his wrist. But he  _had_  inherited his father's fast fingers and grabbed the jar fraction of a second before he also was pulled out through the window.

The ride through the yard was nothing short of chaotic. Somehow Sly managed to twist in the air and land in the cart. He grabbed hold of the edge and a shaking Bentley.

"Where are the breaks on this thing?" Murray wailed.

"Ahhh... that was my project for next week, I'm afraid..."

"Uh-oh. Try to aim for something soft, Murray!"

The cart hit a small stone and steered out of control, heading for a tree until -

_bouf_

They landed on a pile of lawn clippings.

For a disoriented minute, all they could do was spit blades of grass. Then, there was breathless laughter and finally reverent silence when Sly released his death grip on the cookie jar. He grinned, looking up at his friends.

"Dig in!"

For years to come, the taste of cookies would bring in memories of accomplishment, of youth and friendship and strength.

 

* * *

 

In general, the three friends did not spend too much time inside the orphanage, choosing instead to explore the countryside on Murray's little cart.

Sometimes it seemed as though they could keep running forever under an endless blue sky, pretending to be on the run from the police with priceless loot on board. (In reality, stolen apples and an enraged goat.) The wind was a gentle breeze and smelled of green things.

Inside the orphanage, lives were still rough for one and all. Mrs. Puffin was a continuous unpleasant presence and the loss of her cookie jar had not exactly endeared children to her. Often they ended up relying on Sly to sneak dinner from the kitchen after dark.

But it mattered not. Happiness was crayon-drawn plans under a blanket fort, a stolen and empty cookie jar hidden in the garden shed and an imagined future of daring heists and fast getaways.

Occasionally, Sly even forgot the heavy weight on his shoulders and his inevitable harsh quest for vengeance. Then he would chance to look at his cane and always remember torn pages and blood seeping in the carpet. At these times, he sometimes asked himself if it was fair of him to drag Bentley and Murray into his fate.

Shadows and police sirens were bad enough, blood was worse.

He had asked about it once, if they really wanted to risk their lives for his legacy. Bentley had been thrown off a loop, distracted from his plans, and hadn't been able to find his tongue.

Murray had spoken instead, had said "Friends are worth getting hurt for."

Bentley had agreed. That had been that.

But sometimes, Sly still wondered.

 

* * *

 

The cycle of school and summers was not to last.

Sometime along the line, Bentley had become such a regular at the village library that the librarians had started to joke about charging him rent. Naturally, they didn't know what exactly he did there, reading tomes larger than he was and clicking hours and hours away on the slow and dusty computer pushed out of the way in the corner.

He was, more often than not, hacking. As all knowledge, writing code came to him easily and willingly. It would be useful in future, so he would learn everything there was to know about it.

So he clicked away, in silence, amidst tall hallways of bookshelves, in the pleasant smell of bound leather and old paper. But always, when he almost felt as though he was the only person in a world of computer code and dusty air, Sly and Murray would come in and sneak him a croissant and a bottle of water.

Murray had been hired to run errands by the town mechanic, a walrus with a slow steady voice and biceps of steel but also deteriorating sight and a failing back. It had taken him two hours to realise Murray had been born a wrench in hand and, over the years, had taught Murray the tricks of the trade. Murray spent most of his time under a car these days, but had also been instructed how to drive.

"It is disgraceful," the mechanic had said, wiping his oily hands on a rug, "to know how to mend but not how to conduct. An apprentice of mine will know what to do with a steering wheel."

No one asked what Sly did whilst Bentley hacked and Murray changed tires. There was no need to, really, because more often than not he came in with pockets full of coins and cash.

(Even now, not a single coin was split between the three of them. Money was spent when needed, no questions asked.)

 

* * *

 

Murray first saw the van abandoned on the side of the road. A battered thing, grey paint cover nearly non-existent and bumper dented.

It was love at first sight.

Murray spent the next month patching it up, camping day and night right there on the side of the road.

(Sly and Bentley had looked at each other, baffled, then agreed wordlessly that a getaway van was a brilliant thing to have and they did not have the money to buy a new one anyway.)

It ended up their responsibility to bring supplies, as Murray refused to leave "his baby" alone. Both initially worried about what the old mechanic would say, but that had turned out to be "nothing" and they had been handed Murray's tools with a silent nod.

Eventually, they had it in working condition with Sly's "acquisitions" and Bentley's newly obtained knowledge over combustion engines and car batteries, fruits of a tireless weekend of research in the library.

Sly wiped his hands of grease and smiled at the content purr of the motor. Bentley gave a thumbs-up from the front seat, having monitored the gauges from the inside.

"How does it look underneath, Murray?" he shouted over the noise.

"We're all set!" Murray rolled out, looking ready to burst into tears. There had been no leaks or suspicious noises; the van was working perfectly.

"Well then, welcome to the gang!" Sly said warmly and pat the metal. With a new coat of blue paint and a lack of rust and dents, it really was a rather nice van.

 

* * *

 

Bentley was almost fifteen when he rounded up their current abilities and made a crucial decision.

Murray was a capable mechanic and driver. He had been that before Bentley even realised they would need a getaway driver, and that was well. (Sometimes he looked and saw how Murray could lift even the heaviest load without much effort and wondered if driving and mechanics were not his only talents, but that future was years and heaps of self-confidence away.)

Sly, now, he was ever athletic and fleet footed, very much naturally capable of stealth and acrobatics. He had not been given Bentley's analytical ability, but was intelligent in his own way, could think on his feet and make the split-second decisions that were essential when one's life was spent in shadows and under the moon.

Neither of his friends would benefit from school.

Murray had never been the academic type, had learned well enough at the garage. What Sly needed to achieve his true potential was the Thievius Raccoonus and they could not  _hope_  to touch that for many years to come.

 _That_ , more than anything, had led Bentley into this decision. He was the brains of their gang and could not learn all he needed from a tiny library and a slow, hiccoughing computer. Writing code was already ingrained in his fingers, strategies he could not learn in school. Engineering was the best bet. For electronics and other things, for machines and gadgets.

Now, years spent with Sly had caused Bentley's moral compass to point to a subtly different North. It was therefore his firm opinion that if he could hack himself into the system of the  _École Centrale Paris,_  he was already entirely qualified to attend.

There was no need to apply traditionally and wait for even  _more_  years to pass.

 

* * *

 

The career councillor of the village school, a mouse with a coat of already greying brown fur, was stressed enough to almost break down and cry on his desk. Because their school was indeed small and housed the entire population of the village's children, there simply wasn't a way to afford much personnel. On top of advising students on where to go in their lives, he took care of all other counselling, tutoring and the occasional clogged toilet whenever their elderly janitor busted his hip cleaning the stairs.

His was a thankless job on most days, even discounting the extra responsibilities. Children never seemed to have the patience to think ahead and that grief did not even include  _special_  cases like Sly Cooper whose apparent plans for the future could be accurately summed as "ehhh, something will come along" and a hand wave, and who usually walked out of his office with pockets full of office trinkets and the occasional wallet.

 _At least Bentley seems to have a handle on things_ , he thought approvingly. During their last talk, Bentley had presented him with a letter of acceptance and early enrolment to the prestigious  _École centrale Paris_ , one of the most selective  _grandes écoles_ in France.

Overjoyed as he was for his student, he had spent the entire meeting congratulating Bentley and completely forgot to ask about things such as his living arrangements, budget and, indeed, how he had managed to successfully apply in the first place without having sat through an entrance exams and two years of  _classes préparatoires_.

 _However_ , he thought to himself,  _surely such a brilliant and responsible child has already arranged everything. He really is a genius._

The councillor continued writing, calmer now and content that at least one of his students would have a brilliant career and would not end up drifting to the other side of the law to make ends meet.

 

* * *

 

They left their village on one of those summer nights when wind was mellow and mild and the sky an endless dome of tiny stars. The only sounds were the serenades of grasshoppers and croaking of frogs. The moon was yellow and impossibly large.

Gathering their property took a while, as most of it was hidden in tree holes and rooftops rather than their room in the orphanage. There was hardly any true privacy found there, and they had not trusted their fellow orphans not to have sticky fingers. Loyalty born of the collective hate everyone felt for their caretaker only stretched to keeping quiet over transgressions and feigning ignorance if questioned, never property theft.

Mrs. Puffin did not even know they had left, would only find out next morning from a hastily written note. She would sniff in contempt and throw the note in the rubbish bin.  _Good riddance to those good-for-nothings_ , she would think and leave to brew her morning tea.

Murray's goodbyes were far more difficult. The old mechanic had been his mentor for years, had listened and taught patiently and never asked many questions. They had expected anger, for robbing him of his successor.

Apparently he had again understood far more than they had thought. There was no anger on his face, merely a certain sort of resigned sadness. He nodded at their apprehensive faces, thanked Murray for his hard work and told him to take care of his van.

More telling even was the brand new set of tools sitting in the back of their van.

(There was more snow on his fur now, his back was more bent. They hoped he would have time to have another apprentice, one that would  _stay_  and not wander away to the world.)

And yet, soon enough, the gloomy mood lifted. They were young and free, a long, bright future stretching ahead. The road was endless, the night pleasantly cool and there was a faint scent of the white flowers of bird cherry trees in the air. Their little village was far behind.

Somewhere ahead, distant and glimmering with promise, was fair Paris.

(They never returned, not even for a visit. What was there to go back for, except possibly a grave? No one wanted to see that.)

 

 


	3. The lean years of our youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many things are laid out for the future.

 

 

Paris in daylight was overwhelming, especially to former residents of a tiny rural village. The city seemed to stretch endlessly beyond what eyes can see, tall buildings reaching for the treetops and an ocean of people on the streets.

Summer made the air hot and humid, and the leather seats of their van were getting uncomfortably tacky. Sly rolled down the window for some fresh air (even city fumes were better by this point) and winked at a group of pretty weasel girls walking down the street. They giggled and waved back. Sly grinned, projecting a very believable image of an arrogant and carefree playboy. He loved Paris already.

Bentley wasn't in any state of mind to admire the sights, he was clutching at his map, nervously tracing their progress and checking again and again that they had not gotten lost. Murray did peer around every time they stopped at traffic lights, eager to take in the surroundings while he didn't have to concentrate.

Daytime Paris was certainly worth the attention, picturesque and bohemian and very much like an image from a post card. There was something to see everywhere; charming little cafés, majestic historical monuments, fashionable boutiques, carefully groomed parks. The women were glamorous with stylish clothes and impeccable make-up, the men seemed jovial and fond of wine. Snippets of conversation and music carried over the noise of traffic. Behind the distasteful smell of exhaust fumes was the scent of coffee and delicious food.

Murray's stomach was starting to protest, and around three in the afternoon they stopped to eat at a dowdy little bistro. The food was good and the waiter surly, his plastic slippers flapping against ceramic floor tiles as he made his way around the room, avoiding customers and varnishing spotless tables.

Sly leaned against the wall next to their booth, playing idly with his cane and sipping at his coffee. Murray was still stuffing his face, having raided the dessert buffet. It was an impressive collection of delicacies:  _crème brûlée_ , ice cream, fresh berries, whipped cream, custard tarts, chocolate mousse and various other pastries. Bentley was again pouring over the city map he'd been consulting ever since they'd seen a pompous little sign that had announced their entrance to Paris proper.

(It had seemed a little arbitrary; Paris had definitely not begun from one spot. It had emerged, slowly, like a gleaming urban pearl, from quiet elegant suburbs and dreary bleak industrial areas.)

Eventually it was time to pay up and leave to continue the unique adventure that was finding a specific address in a new city. But Paris was vast, and evening arrived long before they reached their destination. Sly watched, fascinated, as the city changed with the sunset.

Paris of the night was a city of sin and vice, a coral reef of neon lights and colours of the rainbow where people went where they would, some passing the time searching for the business that was pleasure, some for the forgetfulness found at the bottom of a wine glass. The air was thick and heady with expectation, the music low and thumping.

Sly felt right at home. It was only the need to find their new temporary home that made him stay in the van and not leap out to explore. He wanted to visit the clubs and listen for useful gossip, scale the tempting rooftops to gaze at the hustle of the city from above.

But there would be time for that later, always.

 

* * *

 

Their new neighbourhood,  _Château Rouge_ , was not quite as glamorous as the name suggested. It was the dirty underbelly beneath the elegance, where the unwanted and forgotten gathered, those abandoned by the world of light. Happiness was hard fought in these parts, long lost in the shards of broken dreams.

While the street surface was made of charming cobblestone, the buildings on both sides loomed tall and derelict, covered in graffiti and windows either broken or boarded up. The streetlights flickered, manholes steamed faintly and garbage was piled up on the sides of the street.

Their apartment was more of the same, having one dusty room besides the toilet and the kitchen. What wasn't falling apart was stained and the furniture consisted of a single bed and a sofa. The fridge seemed to work well enough, but also made a strange rattling noise and was clearly a senior citizen that should have been allowed to retire long ago.

But the place was also high up, high enough that the rest of the Paris was visible through the wide window, spread in distance like a glittering canvas where cars sped along roads in neat lines of light. A yellow moon loomed into the room, impossibly large and lonely. It all offered some distance from the streets right below.

Living in this neighbourhood was less about money and more about avoiding attention during their early years. It was not yet time to gain the attention of police and, as long as they kept their heads down, they would seamlessly disappear amongst the poor and the downtrodden.

They had barely started to unpack and clean up the dust of the travel when there was a knock on the door. Sly opened it with healthy caution, only to relax when the pallid light of the hallway revealed a small woman. She looked to be a marten, with a vary, hopeful expression and dark circles under her eyes. She held a plate of beignets, still steaming hot.

"I, um, I wanted to welcome you to the building. I am your next door neighbour, Eugenié."

Sly grinned, shoulders relaxing. "Thank you,  _madame_. I am Sly, and my friends are Bentley and Murray. Our schedule is likely to be somewhat erratic, so I apologise in advance if we ever disturb you at night."

With new acquaintances the norm was to offer your last name first, but if the lady wanted to hide it, she must have her own reasons. Sly didn't ask questions.

"I have a son, somewhat older than you. I would like to introduce you one of these days," Eugenié said and smiled in relief, a silent understanding passing between them.  _I will not pry if you won't._

"Certainly," Sly replied, bowing slightly. A creak in the hallway made Eugenié stiffen and glance to the side. When no one came forward, she relaxed again. There was a faint hint of  _something_  in her eyes, but Sly could only read tension, no treachery. Whatever her troubles were, they did not involve his gang.

Not yet.

He took the beignets to the living room, where they were well received by both of his friends.

Living here was already shaping up to be interesting.

 

* * *

 

Murray wanted to be useful.

Bentley was the uncontested genius and Sly could have made Olympic athletes weep in shame. Murray was neither of those things, but his body was reliable in its own way. Not very agile, but durable and strong.

Back in the days of their childhood, he had asked for a job from the old mechanic because he liked cars. That he had turned out to be good at maintenance and mechanics had been a pleasant surprise, as had been the fact that his reflexes sharpened to knives behind a steering wheel.

Having something he could offer for his friends made him happy.

It was admittedly a bit backwards that they should fund their future career partly through his entirely honest income, but money was money. Bentley's scholarship did not account for everything, they also needed to live.

Therefore, when Murray saw the sign announcing the need for a part-time delivery boy on the window of that nice (if dingy) little pizzeria down the street, he went home and asked Bentley if he could forge him a driver's licence.

 

* * *

 

École _centrale Paris_  was, as higher institutions tend to be, comprised of several buildings. The one Bentley saw most often was modern and open with white walls and glass, bright and cool and sterile.

For the first weeks, Bentley had marvelled at the maturity of his new peers. Certainly there were some that sneered at his age, but the vast majority treated him perfectly politely. It was an open, interesting world, very different from their dark and dangerous one, and he wished he could bring Sly and Murray for a visit.

The same pleasantness went with the professors, for the most part, although they seemed to embody the statement that accomplished people tend to accumulate  _eccentricities_.

His aging mathematics professor, an orangutan with silver fur, was a brilliant teacher but refused to give up his blackboard in favour of digital overhead projectors and occasionally wiped it clean of complex equations with a dry rag. As such, he spent most of the class time coughing on chalk powder and sounding like he was about to expire any moment.

The young rabbit lady in charge of teaching digital image processing was so excited over the recent innovations in her field that Bentley sometimes feared she would accidentally swallow her tongue in her haste to enlighten her students. Still, her lessons were some of his favourites.

(Even if she didn't quite seem to grasp the fact that they had lessons other than her own and would keep talking long after the allotted lecture time.)

Then there was  _monsieur_  Charletan, an aging crow with silver streaks in his plumage and rather unfortunate and fairly erratic anger issues. Bentley found his lectures lacklustre and methods questionable, but physics was easy to learn from books and he generally spent the lessons reading further along under the table. There was always one bad apple, he had assumed, and left it at that.

That changed one afternoon when he sneaked in the administrational office after hours to laminate Murray's brand new fake driving licence.

He was exceedingly nervous - his talent lay in knowledge, not action, and he had no way to contact his friends should the need arise. Murray was waiting in the van, as always, having driven Bentley to school and back every day, but Sly was not present to offer confidence. He really should get on with building those wireless communication devices.

Still, he had the best chance to bail out of trouble if anything happened. Bentley had expected higher education to offer more of a challenge, but at least the first year had proven to be as much of a walk in the park as ever and his status as the resident prodigy provided him with a certain amount of leeway from his teachers.

Thankfully the laminating machine was silent and fast and spit out the piece of plastic without complaint. Bentley took the slightly warm licence and slipped it under his shell.

Of course, that was when his luck ran out. The sound of the doorknob turning sent Bentley's heart to his throat and he barely managed to scramble under the desk before the door opened.

He should be well able to stay out of sight, he reminded himself, concentrating on breathing. He and Murray had none of Sly's natural aptitude when it came to stealth, but learning from the best counted for  _something_. Not that it helped with his nerves, which seemed insistent on choking him with tension.

"...You do wish to graduate, do you not?" carried the soft sound of Charletan's voice. There was something smug and cold about it and Bentley felt instantly alarmed.

"B-but my rent... I really need to pay for it, the landlord won't excuse me again!" said a desperate voice Bentley didn't recognise.

Charletan scoffed. "That is none of my concern. Which is more important? You scratch my back, I scratch yours,  _non_? You would not wish to  _anger_  me."

There was a muffled, miserable sound of agreement and the sound of scuffling Bentley thought meant that the bribe had been exchanged. Thankfully, neither lingered in the office and he was left alone again.

Bentley picked himself up from the floor, seething.

He knew there were crooked people in the world, certainly. He was arguably one himself, no matter if he could honestly say he slept with a clean conscience.

But science and academics were supposed to be based on honest merit. Not to mention the fact that the  _grandes écoles_  already received a lion's share of the budget for higher education, so the staff must be paid very well.

Charletan was either exceedingly greedy or had an expensive hobby. Bentley didn't know which of the two, but fully intended to find out.

 

* * *

 

Under the waning moon, a shadow darted along the rooftops of Paris. It scaled the wall of a tall clubhouse, skidded along the roof tiles and leaped off to hook on a cable to slide down. With a swish of a tail, the figure disappeared into bushes.

Sly loved Paris. In the tiny village he had lived before, it simply wasn't  _possible_  to jump from one roof to another in an endless race. There were no ledges to inch along, no real view from rooftops.

Here, only the sky was his limit.

He lifted the necklace he had stolen earlier, admiring the gleam of dark blue gems under the pale moonlight. He could tell they weren't sapphires, but also knew almost instinctively that the bauble was valuable anyway.

His father had taught him such things, at least, when he had been too small for physical feats. He could appraise value, recognise true antiques from forgeries and tell fool's gold apart from the real thing. It had been dull and laborious, but paid off now.

He still needed the Thievius Raccoonus, of course. He could climb pipes, ropes, even almost smooth walls. He could swing from hanging hooks and slide down cables. He had yet to fail at picking pockets, hands holding the cane both subtle and sure.

And while his clan had always put more weight into stealth, Sly had no choice but to learn how to fight, not if he wanted his revenge.

It wasn't nearly enough, none of it approaching what he knew he could do, if only...

Still, the most pressing issue was to find a place to sell his loot. He didn't want some shady joint where they would try to steal a man's gold teeth while they turned their back. Courtesy of his late father, he had a name, but  _monsieur_  Discreté had turned out to be difficult to locate.

Then again, that was good. An underworld broker had to be good at keeping out of sight.

Sly crept out of the bushes and glanced around.

He had gotten the address to this place by greasing the palms of the bartender at a shady little bar where the customers never looked each other in the eyes and paid with carefully counted, rumpled notes. Despite the looks, the dive was said to be reasonably reputable, and Sly was slowly starting to get a good feel about this.

The neighbourhood was respectable enough, but not too elegant or exciting. The tiny, unassuming pawn shop he had been directed to was nudged between an dusty used books store and a place that seemed to sell paint and tapestry.

Perfect for such a business, really. (Well, as long as the customers managed to look legitimate. Or were sneaky enough. Sly was reasonably sure he fell in the latter category at this point, because his outfit certainly looked like he was about to rob someone.)

He stepped in, hearing a bell chime to alert the owner. The place was both tidy and absolutely full, everything organised impeccably so that no space was wasted. He could see several boxes labelled as 'Baccarat Crystal, Fragile' as well as several ancient looking books, exquisite oil paintings and fine china. There were also pieces of jewelry of all kinds, made of gold gemstones or silver and pearls.

Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention and he turned to face the person rushing to the counter from the back room. He was an otter and looked so unremarkable that Sly had to congratulate him mentally.

" _Bonsoir_ , how can I... Cooper!"

Surprised recognition shattered the polite mask. Sly blinked and smiled, as crooked and smug as always. " _Bonsoir_ , Discreté. I see we can drop the pretence and get to business right away."

The otter smiled back, tentative and hopeful. "It would seem that way, yes. Do come to the back room. Goodness, I have to admit I didn't expect to see you, after what happened... I imagine we both have quite a bit to talk about."

He leaned past Sly to turn the sign on the door, stating that the shop was now  _fermé_.

"Please call me Nicolas," he said as he led Sly to a small kitchen at the back of his shop. "My father spoke highly of your father, and your clan. I would ldearly like to work with someone honorable. I do so dislike working with the organised crime around here, their manners usually leave something to be desired."

"I'm sure we will get along just fine," Sly replied, accepting the offered cup of coffee with a smile. "My name is Sly. And while I would love to catch up with you, this evening I have something to sell and I am a bit strapped for time. We should have a proper get-together at a later date."

"Ah, I understand.  _Bon_ , let me take a look," Nicolas replied.

Sly dug in his back bag for his collection from the last month: moderately valuable jewellery, small antiques and assorted knick-knacks of dubious origin.

"Huh, this is good stuff," Nicolas said as he inspected the items, dangling a golden pocket watch from his fingers. "Not too hot or overly expensive, I probably won't have any trouble selling these on. I think I'm going to like working with you, Sly."

Sly grinned and handed Nicolas a small list. "Glad to know you approve. Still, I really must be leaving. If we are talking about the price, I need this equipment."

He dug in his pocket and handed over the small note that contained Bentley's instructions. Nicolas folded the paper open and glanced through the list.

"Oh,  _oui_ , I can make this happen. And I do mean it, please stop by at any time," Nicolas said and smiled warmly.

Sly inclined his head in acknowledgement and slipped out of the door. This time, there was no accompanying ring of the bell.

 

* * *

 

Sly's step was even lighter than usual on the way back home. Things were looking up. There was simply no way to be a thief without an underworld connection, even for one that stole from other criminals.

The community was vast and sprawling like an Ivy vine and had dozens of dead ends and false leads. In Paris alone, many gangs and syndicates lived in relative harmony, controlling their own areas and occasionally squabbling over something or other. There was drug trafficking, prostitution, confidence tricks, money laundering, illegal gambling... All branches of crime flourished in the great metropolis of Paris.

Sly and his little gang would have to dig their own little niche in the system. It wouldn't do to make enemies out of  _everyone_.

Divide and conquer, his father had said.

At this hour, even their dreary little street was starting to get sleepy. Besides the usual passed out drunks, few were out and about. Sly passed a small group of slightly wilting prostitutes with smudged make-up and nodded respectfully. " _Être sûrs,_ Charlotte, Marie, Bonnie."

Sly was rather popular with the local flowers of the night, having no tolerance for small-time criminals trying to beat women into what they perceived as their place, nor for men trying to take control of 'the business'. As far as Sly was concerned, the ladies had it hard enough.

" _Naturellement_ , Sly," they replied, painted smiles both beguiling and shrewd. Sly bowed slightly in their direction and both parties went in their own way.

This was the way his little gang interacted with almost everyone, he had found. Friendly, yes, but fleeting; much like ships that pass each other in the night.

Bentley and Murray were the only ones he had been able to let close, and vice versa. He sometimes wondered what kind of people his friends would have become had they not met Sly that fateful day, in the murky waters of their childhood.

He shook his head. It was useless to dwell on it. The past was already set in stone. Future was still ahead, both enticing and treacherous.

Sly didn't bother with the door to their temporary home, instead climbing the gutter and slipping through the large window. He shut it carefully. Air was getting rather chilly and they hadn't gotten around to repairing the central heating yet. Patching the walls had taken care of the draft, but it was still little better than it would be to live on the roof.

To his surprise, Bentley and Murray were nursing cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen. Sly raised an eyebrow.

"Still awake? Something got under your shell, Bentley?"

"Very funny," Bentley replied tartly. "No. I.. I have found a... target. I'd like your input with the plan since I'm probably going to have to come along on this one."

"All right, let me have it," Sly said, hiding his surprise. They had done projects of small scale before, but more often than not Sly had been out on his own.

But then, this was a brief flash of what the future would bring.

 

* * *

 

The plan to take down Charletan wasn't complicated, but the man wasn't  _really_  part of the underworld. With no underlings or connections, he was on his own.

Bentley disabled the security as easily as he would open a door and spent only a little bit longer coding the security cameras to play in a loop. Unfortunately, that was the safe part.

Murray sat in the darkness of the van and tried not to flinch at every sound or shadow moving outside. He didn't want to be alone, not when he didn't know what was going on. Normally, Bentley would keep him company, but apparently the files he needed were on the hard drive of the computer and Sly could not hack his way out of a paper bag.

That didn't make Murray feel any better. He still wished he could do something more. But fear gripped him, and the day he would win over himself had not yet arrived.

 

* * *

 

Charletan's office was surprisingly small and very cluttered. Bentley headed straight for his personal computer, ignoring Sly who, true to his character, was slipping this and that into his pockets. (Bentley sometimes wondered if it was a personal compulsion or an inherited trait.)

He had only just managed to find a promising root folder when Sly tapped at his shell.

"Look," he said and offered Bentley a stack of papers, frowning.

Bentley leafed through them, growing more indignant by the moment. Charletan's offences had certainly not been limited to blackmail. He had committed fraud, bribery and embezzled various funds. From the looks of the dates printed on the paper, this had been going on for years.

Thankfully their target had been careless (or maybe just had the habit of a scientist) and had let the evidence accumulate. It was more than enough to get him sacked, if not arrested outright. Bentley still wasn't sure, however, what the money was spent on. There was some money laundering thrown in, here and there, but no details on what cost Charletan five thousand francs per month.

The safe was a bit of a problem, too. Charletan hadn't been foolish enough to leave the combination in plain sight.

Bentley went to the papers to look for clues, muttering to himself. Meanwhile, Sly took to turning the combination lock in idle boredom but stopped all of a sudden, eyes widening in surprise. Then, very carefully, he changed the direction, his face a mask of intense concentration. Bentley almost asked what was going on, but held his tongue.

The safe clicked and opened, the door swinging out without a sound.

Sly turned to Bentley, looking only a little less astonished than his friend.

"I could feel it," he said. "Very subtle, like a little tremor on my fingertips."

"...I assume this is another thing that has to do with your Cooper heritage, then," Bentley said slowly, eyes wide behind his glasses. "But until we find the Thievius Raccoonus, it seems we will keep finding out your skills by trial and error."

"Yeah, probably. But, you know, while I can't wait to reclaim my birth-right, finding out what I can do like this isn't half bad," Sly said and grinned, the joy of discovery in his eyes.

Frankly, Bentley couldn't wait to get to read the book either. Sly and his family were clearly not just about hiding and hoarding techniques  _anyone_  could learn by reading instructions - at the very least there had to a genetic disposition.

They emptied the contents of the safe into Sly's back bag, but money wasn't the only thing left inside. Behind the thick wads of cash were several small unassuming packages. Sly opened one, carefully, and sniffed. The smell was as overwhelming as incense and vaguely unpleasant. There was a bitter undertone to the scent of sandalwood and what resembled fennel and black cardamom.

Bentley leaned over his forearm to take a look. "Best take that with us, too, I want to do a chemical analysis on it. I cannot imagine why he would keep such large amounts of spice in his safe."

 

* * *

 

Most of the days, Sly and Murray had a schedule completely different from Bentley. During the hours of the day, he had lectures and returned home to find his companions just waking up, making coffee or brushing their teeth. There were a few hours then, to eat together and talk, before Murray was expected at the pizzeria and Sly left to his own mysterious excursions.

Bentley would go to sleep then, unless he had coursework to do or wanted to work on one of his personal projects. Alone in the apartment the walls seemed to close in and every little noise served to emphasise his loneliness. It was far better even to wake up at three in the morning, groggy and disoriented, to Murray crashing into the coat rack (and why did they even  _have_ one of those, again?)

As always, no one really asked Sly what he did. Usually he would tell them, at times he would not. Often he brought cash with him and always Bentley felt the brief sting of shame, before his conscious mind could stifle it.

They all did what they could and none of them could do everything, he reminded himself.

There were also times when Sly returned with bruises and gashes and stated only that he could not rely on stealth alone to accomplish his goal. It wasn't an answer, and yet it was. Bentley would take out their medical kit then and patch him up, cleaning the wounds and stitching them if needed. Sly had fur, it would cover the scars.

(Sometimes Bentley wondered if there were times he simply didn't wake up to do the job. Unlike everyone else, Sly had somehow mastered the art of not stepping on that one particularly creaky floorboard that complained every time someone dared to enter the living room.)

 

* * *

 

There were a few times none of them had to be anywhere else and Christmas was one of those.

While they resorted to Chinese take-out for dinner, Eugenié had baked them a traditional Christmas log cake. There were also apples, oranges and pears, nougat and chocolate and little almonds, and the brand new game console Sly had somehow procured (legally or not).

All in all, the world seemed far away and worries and obligations were momentarily buried under snow.

(Not that there was any of that in Paris. Temperature was stuck at steady -5°C and the streets were as black as coal.)

Their content peace was broken when Eugenié screamed, shrill and frightened.

Barely sparing a glance at his friends, Sly leaped to his feet and raced to the hallway. He had never forgotten, though he might have appeared to, that she always seemed wary and frightened and jumped at the shadows. The habit had never left her, even as they slowly became casual acquaintances.

The door to her apartment had been forced open and hung from its hinges, creaking sadly. Sly darted in without hesitating.

The inside of her place was tidy and modest, if showing obvious signs of poverty: the furniture was mismatched and heavily repaired and the wallpaper peeling off.

Sly didn't pay much attention to that, however.

A rather portly muskrat with a tasteless uneven moustache and an expensive coat was threatening Eugenié with a knife. He swayed on his feet and Sly could smell the liqueur to the other side of the room, but he was also much larger than her and fully immersed in alcoholic anger. Eugenie held a heavy frying pan and looked ready to use it, but she was still at a disadvantage. Before Sly could move, she caught his eye and gasped.

"Sly! No, you'll get in trouble!" she cried. Sly ignored the implied request and stared at the trespasser. He was absolutely going to interfere in this.

"Youuu, you bitch! You' been  _chhheating_  on me?" the muskrat bellowed, turning to Sly and lurching forward uncertainly. "You shtay away from  _my_ woman!"

Sly twirled his cane. Almost at the age of fifteen, he was already nearing his adult proportions, lean strong muscles and wide shoulders. The muskrat may have been large, but he was drunk and addled.

It really wasn't much of a match - mostly because Eugenié used the moment of distraction to hit him over the head with the pan made of cold iron. The muskrat dropped like a sack of potatoes.

There was a pause, as tension drained away like water from a sieve.

Sly raised an eyebrow and straightened. "Well, so much for mister macho. Are you okay?"

Eugenié nodded and sighed, letting the pan drop on the carpet. "I am. But you really shouldn't have interfered. He'll now come up with some ridiculous story, I'm sure."

Sly shrugged. "Too late to regret. And who knows, he might not remember me."

As Bentley and Murray came in, encouraged by the lack of screaming, Sly took a hold of the muskrat and dragged him all the way out of the apartment, down the stairs and outside building.

About to go back in, he frowned and stopped. He could still smell the bitter stench of alcohol and sweat, but underneath that was something else.

Something like sandalwood and black cardamom.

He dug into the man's pockets and pulled out a small package. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. It might smell like spice and be used like spice, but it was a drug. Bentley's analysis on their previous sample had revealed several psychoactive compounds, known for inducing hallucinations and increased aggression.

Leaving the muskrat out on the street, Sly leaped up the stairs and went back to Eugenié's apartment to the sight of Bentley and Murray trying to comfort her with tea and leftover Christmas cake. She looked remarkably poised already, if a little depressed.

"Thank you, but this won't stop here. My Marcel has tried to get his father arrested time and again, but it never seems to hold water. That man has money enough to line the pockets of the right people. And now you've gotten in trouble, too."

Sly smiled gently and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I also know a guy."

 

* * *

 

"Nicolas, what can you tell me about this?" Sly asked and dropped the small bag of spice on the counter.

Nicolas looked up from polishing a small magnifying glass and whistled.

"Oh, that's the new trend drug. They call it 'spice' (apparently whoever named the thing had no imagination whatsoever). As far as I know, it's distributed by the Klaww Gang. The stuff is allegedly pretty popular with the middle and upper class population. You know - rich, bored kids."

Sly frowned. "I see. The police isn't doing anything?"

"I doubt it. Seems like money has exchanged hands again. You want incorruptible cops, you go to Interpol. Not that there aren't any crooks there, but, you know. Your chances are better. And besides, for all it does to you, it's also real spice. I don't think they've even trained dogs to recognise it."

"Well, I suppose there's nothing to it, then," Sly said and sighed, stretching his shoulders. "Still, I need to ask for a favour. My lovely neighbour has a bit of a problem with her ex-husband, who seems to be addicted to the stuff. Bentley said it increases aggression and he definitely seemed plenty hostile, so I can't leave this alone."

Nicolas nodded, rubbing at his chin. "Humm... Well, I do know just the guy. Just leave it to me, I'll get back to you."

" _Merci_ , Nicolas.  _Joyeux Noël_."

"Same to you, Sly," Nicolas said and glanced up.

The shop was empty. A brief breeze had blown in several snowflakes, products of an unexpected storm. Nicolas sighed, exasperated at the theatrics, and turned back to his new collection of freshwater pearls.

 

* * *

 

Time passed and summer returned to Paris. The city bloomed in flowers and tourists once again laid flawless siege on public toilets and restaurants.

Sly, Bentley and Murray had vacations, too, and nothing in particular to accomplish for once. The days passed, each of them lazy and hot, as the sun bored down on the city with vengeance. There was home-made lemonade, sunlight through the high window and a tiny electric fan that bravely tried to keep the heat at bay. It was too hot to think, too hot to steal, too hot to work.

When evening brought a relieving cool breeze, they would head out together and eat dinner at the pizzeria where Murray worked. The owner was a jovial warthog with an utterly incomprehensible Italian accent, filthy apron and clean hands. He always greeted them all with a friendly shout from the kitchen, but they had long since given up trying to figure out what he was actually saying.

They would head home after that, and play games or talk together until the moon rose to greet them. Sometimes they would stay up until the sun rose and birds welcomed a new morning.

It was during one of these idle days that they finally met the elusive Marcel.

The knock on the door was unexpected, if only for the timing. Their only visitor was Eugenié, who sometimes swept in to bring them peach tarts or petit fours and chatted cheerily about this and that. She had warmed up considerably since that Christmas incident and now always greeted them all with a kiss on both cheeks.

But she never showed up this late.

Sly groaned and heaved himself up from the deck chair, leaving his game controller on the floor. He had been winning the race, too.

He opened the door to the sour face of a young marten, who frowned at Sly and narrowed his eyes, then seemed to finish some internal struggle and sighed. He thrust his hand at Sly like it was a weapon.

"I am Marcel. My mother told me what you did for her. I... am here to thank you."

The words were not quite spat out, but there was a definite wary tightness to them. Evidently, Marcel wasn't one for trusting people.

Sly decided that this was not a place for smartass comments and tried to clean all of the usual smugness from his smile. "Ah,  _enchanté_. My name is Sly. Do come in, I'll introduce you to my friends."

Marcel nodded rigidly and stepped inside.

It took half an hour and several glasses of lemonade, but eventually Marcel seemed to come to the conclusion that they were not, in fact, planning something nefarious and his hostility melted into standoffish acceptance.

He worked in the shipping industry, he explained, but also had some less than scrupulous dealings here and there and dabbled in things like shady construction and smuggling.

"It's mostly for mother," he said, gazing at the bottom of his glass. "I admire her. Father is rich, as you would know, and for a long time she only stuck with him for my sake. Until he beat her black and blue in some drunken rage. She left him right away, found a place for us to live and a job, and raised me with baked goods and smiles, all the while hiding from him. I think she's strong. Even now, after all these years, she's never given up her dream of opening a bakery. With father gone, she can finally do it."

Marcel looked up, his face stern.

"I'm only telling you all this because you got rid of him. I can tell you're not exactly law abiding citizens, and I don't like it. Some sort of rat instinct, I suppose, like recognises like... But I think I can trust you, to some extent."

He stood up and handed over the lemonade glass. "I never managed to get father arrested, no matter what strings I pulled. For that, I'll owe you guys one. Keep that in mind."

Sly smiled and grasped his hand. "Certainly. It has been a pleasure, Marcel."

Marcel nodded and swept out. Behind, Sly thought he could almost hear Bentley and Murray exhale in relief.

 

* * *

 

Their second year in Paris passed much the same. Murray was finally fired from his job for eating too much pizza on the side, but no one had caught him hotwiring cars while on the job, so everyone counted it as a plus. Sly grew into himself, his shoulders widening and gaining wiry muscles like steel cables. Bentley never gained much height at all, but Sly and Murray could follow his learning curve by the state of his vocabulary.

All in all, life was good.

Then, Bentley's graduation crept up on them like a guest you only half remembered inviting during some party while tipsy on champagne.

An unprecedented genius, he left the institute with impeccable grades after just two years. The day he received his diploma was a gorgeous summer day. The sun was bright and cheery but not overwhelming. The sky was periwinkle blue and stretched out endlessly, white clouds sailing on to their mysterious destinations under other skies.

Just like Bentley would.

He looked through the crowd and spotted his friends. Sly had that smile that always came across as a smirk, but undeniable pride managed to tone it down. Murray was almost jumping in place, waving at Bentley.

Happiness was like a balloon, inflating and lifting him. He glanced at the people he had studied with, the professors who had such expectations of him. He liked all of them just fine, but he was not part of their world. For the last months, he had had to spend a lot of time carefully weaving around attempts to offer him PhD opportunities or introductions to this or that prestigious company.

To cut ties was at the same time painful and a relief, like ripping off a band-aid. He had enjoyed school, the moderate challenge, the endless knowledge, he had walked his shady road since childhood and wasn't about to change it.

He spared the place one last glance and left, with no regrets. Freedom was sweet and the world waited ahead.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The OCs won't be stealing the show, they'll just show up every now and then. I thought a few would be needed, because in the games so much happened off screen. The cast is really small.
> 
> French translations:
> 
> Château Rouge: literally 'red castle', this is a more grungy area of Paris in real life.
> 
> Fermé: closed
> 
> Joyeux Noël: Merry Christmas
> 
> Être sûrs: Be safe
> 
> Enchanté: essentially, 'pleased to meet you'


	4. Greetings, miss Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the law finally steps into the picture

Carmelita was born in a tiny village on the Spanish coast of the Mediterranean Sea. In her little corner of the world, the sand was hot; the grass coarse against her soles and a gentle wind carried the scent of the ocean. The midday sun made air ripple with heat and the tiled streets too hot to walk barefoot. Almond trees bloomed in the spring and lemon trees bore fruit in summer.

Her family was vast and sprawling, which was great when you needed a helping hand and horrible when you needed to keep a secret. She had inherited her mother's beauty and her father's blue hair, and while she had no siblings, there were aunts and uncles and cousins, more than she would care to count, all of them friendly and well-meaning and, frankly, exhausting. Her uncles would ask after her non-existent boyfriends while her aunts tried to feed her paella or give her embarrassing nicknames and her little cousins demanded that she play with them, tugging at her clothes with sticky fingers.

They were not especially wealthy and everyone lived comfortably because of effort. Carmelita grew up working hard and even harder; looking after her younger cousins, washing clothes, helping with cooking. There were chickens to feed, fruit to pick and cleaning to do.  _Always_  cleaning.

In its own way, hers was a sheltered life. Carmelita's sense of right and wrong grew, as it was bound to do, without many shades of grey. There were honest people and crooked people and very little room in between the concepts. She saw no excuse for crime. If you were poor, you just had to ask for help.

And though her sense of justice was rigid and uncompromising, it burned with passion. Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't quite tend to agree with her.

There was a day she came home, biting back furious tears and lashing words. She had gone to the local police department to ask about training to be a police officer, and had been laughed out, told to not worry her pretty little head about men's business.

One of Carmelita's plump aunts gave her a well-used napkin to wipe her tears, and told her that a woman would always run afoul with men who would look down on her.

"Listen well, Carmen," she had said and took a drag from her foul cigarette with obvious relish. An old radio crooned in the corner, most of the passion of flamenco leeched out by the lack of volume.

"Men have four categories for women. We are mothers, virgins, sluts or bitches. None of these are suitable images for an aspiring police officer. What you must do is pick the pieces that work for you. The wisdom of the mother. The integrity of the virgin. The sexual attractiveness of the slut. The independence of the bitch. They will be confused and unable to shove you in a box. Instead, they will have to take you seriously."

"That's... pretty good. Where did you get that, auntie?" Carmelita asked. "Is it something grandmother told you?"

Her aunt waved her finely manicured her hand, and turned back to her pan of paella. "No, I saw it on TV once. But it's still something to keep in mind."

"I... see."

Carmelita loved her family dearly, but she was, at her heart of hearts, an adventurous soul and looked towards wide world out there. In due time, Carmelita strode through the police academy in Madrid wearing furious red lipstick and the confidence of a queen. She graduated with near perfect grades and several marksmanship trophies. Incidentally, she also trod on several hearts over the years, but that was a different thing altogether. In her opinion, they went wrong when they called her such things as 'vixen' and 'foxy lady'.

Work in one of the many peripheral precincts of Madrid was ungrateful at best. Her colleagues, most of them middle aged and cynical, did not think much of her idealism and refusal to tolerate hazing. Casualties included bruised egos and shirts lost to coffee stains.

Her time there gave her a new perspective on crime, as well. Or, at least, a harsher one.

The Spanish mafia was in charge in her district. Crime was organised, dressed up in slang and tattoos. Obvious criminals left the court with a slap on the wrist, due to mysteriously disappearing proof or suddenly amnesiac witnesses. The police seemed more interested in their lunch than their work, and seemed curiously blind to the pattern that was so clear to Carmelita's eyes.

Surrounded by corruption, she wondered if her dedication made the slightest difference. Her already rigid sense of justice was forged into hard and brittle iron.

But Carmelita was the kind of person who measured the worth of work with sweat and pain, and eventually the bitter toil paid off. At the age of nineteen, she was drafted into Interpol.

 

* * *

 

Three years of steady effort saw her at the Opera House of Paris,  _Palais Garnier_ , on a certain lovely summer eve, working on to improving the security for the sake of the upcoming grand performance.

Carmelita smiled. There were a lot of teeth involved, but then, she could hardly help that, being a fox. Surprisingly enough, Interpol on the whole had turned out to appreciate results more than what happened to hang off of her chest. The glass ceiling was there, but made of regular glass rather than the reinforced steel-hard thing she'd run afoul before.

Just that night, her supervisor, inspector Barkley, had nudged her in a manner that was miles away from discreet and whispered (very loudly, so that everyone was sure to hear) that he was considering retirement and leaving his position to her. If she could prove herself tonight, as one last test, she would be the youngest inspector in decades.

She leaned against the railing of the grand marble staircase, lips pulled in a smirk she couldn't quite seem to wipe off, tracing her fingers along the dark veins of the stone. In this soft light, the stone almost seemed alive.

 _Palais Garnier_  had a lot of history, which, in typical European fashion, translated into tall white pillars with elaborate carved arches, statues of various Greek gods standing watch, and elegant chandeliers decorated with crystals and large enough to crush a very small orchestra. The stone of the floor was so polished it was an adequate replacement for a mirror.

However, the downside of the grand, ancient architecture was that such things tended to attract people who founded committees and made a fuss about preservation of tradition. As such, it was very difficult to get a permission to install new security systems. Natural progression of things lead to historical conservation folk constantly arguing with the opera enthusiasts and the people who tried to keep the building running and make sure that opera actually happened.

Personally, Carmelita had very little patience for the petty squabbling and dearly wished to strangle whoever had managed to get Interpol mixed up in the mess. If this  _thing_  had not been the cornerstone of her future career, she would have said something impolite a long time ago.

And yet, in the darkness behind her eyes, a seed of doubt nagged at her like something stringy and green stuck in between your teeth.

Carmelita sighed, taking in the crowded room with a professional glance. Though meaningful, she couldn't deny that there was a definite lack of excitement about her life. She spent most of her days yelling at people and fighting an endless battle with paperwork. The rest of the time she had to make nice with people who had such an overly inflated opinion of their own importance she was tempted to try and poke them with a nail to see if they would deflate like a balloon.

She thought of the old cop dramas her aunts used to watch, with a police chasing a criminal over rooftops, pistol in hand and the shrill scream of sirens in the background. Sometimes they caught the bad guy, sometimes they did not. And that was the point of it, the thrill of the chase…

Carmelita drooped a little. It  _would_  be nice to have a challenge.

 

* * *

 

Sly hummed under his breath, balancing on his toes on the edge of a rooftop. The Paris Opera House shone blue and silver under the moonlight, just across the street, glamorous and inviting, a pearl against the night sky. He flicked out his binocucom, a shiny new toy both literally and figuratively, and zoomed in. Somewhere on the roof was a green glint, on and off.

"How does it look, Bentley?" he asked, his mouth brushing against the wireless mic that lay on his wrist. Bentley had been busy, lately.

"The security is under my total control. I and Murray will be moving to the  _rendez-vous_. And Sly, remember that this is an infiltration mission. You can't pickpocket the guests!"

"Sheesh, take a little extra time to empty some pockets once, and you never hear the end of it."

"I think you will find that it was  _fourteen_  times. And those are only the instances that I know of."

"One, fourteen, twenty, what does it matter?" Sly waved his hand, sweeping aside all possible concerns with the air of someone who is sure that  _this time_  nothing could go wrong, at all. "I'm good at this, Bentley. I won't mess up."

"Don't jinx it! We've made some name for ourselves already, and this time the police are already  _there!_  If we screw this up, then...!"

"Relax, mom. It'll be fine. I'm going in."

In a fluid, practised arc, Sly leaped off the roof and landed on a tree branch. He had muscle and weight, but the wood barely shook. He ran, light on his feet, along the gnarly, twisted maze made of branches, and jumped, grasping the neck of a streetlight. There was a faint  _clink_ , and Sly cringed inside the privacy of his mind.

But he'd taught  _himself_. He was doing pretty good, considering. The snide little voices in his head couldn't come up with anything and grudgingly went silent.

Taking leverage, he pushed against the metal and landed on the wall of the Opera House. Finding some sort of purchase on what seemed to be smooth stone, he reached up and hooked his cane on a ledge. There were windows and carvings after that, and then a statue. He'd climbed harder things. He finally hauled himself up to the rooftop by the elaborate patterns engraved in the ledge.  _Corinthian order_ , he absently noted,  _last of the three principal orders of classic Greece._   _Known for incorporating acanthus leaves and scrolls in its aesthetic_.

Sly grouched behind another bit of carving, taking in his surroundings. There was no need to rush, if there was time to be had.

Most of the roof was a large dome, covered by a glaze of green patina. There was little room to walk. The statues on the edge were gilded and polished. It didn't look like anyone came to the roof often; there were fallen leaves and other debris on the floor. And there, hidden in a corner, was a decidedly shabby service door that stuck out like a crooked nail on wood. A glint of green light went on and off.

"Bentley, do you read me? I'm in position on the rooftop. Take care of the door, would you?"

"Sure thing, pal."

The light flickered and went off, before Bentley had finished talking.

Sly knelt down and frowned at the lock. It was small and rusty. He could break it, but, well. Sly had always had a fine sense of drama. There were  _procedures_  for this kind of thing.

He picked out two pieces of metal from his side pouch and carefully inserted them into the keyhole. With a twist of his wrist, the lock gave in and the door opened with a tired groan. Sly swept inside, shadows swallowing him once more. Behind him, the door swung close with a barely audible click.

The rooftop was left empty, as if Sly had never been there at all. Moonlight shone pale and cold on white stone and the dull green of old copper.

 

* * *

 

Whatever happened later, Carmelita took a certain pride in the fact that the first time she laid eyes on Sly Cooper, her instincts rang warning bells. Of course, it might have been a combination of the instincts of a cop and those of a woman, because she had seen smug smirks like his before.

" _Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,_ " he said, offering his hand. Carmelita frowned, but allowed him to kiss the back of her own.

It was really kind of irritating. For all his smug smile and confidence, the raccoon was attractive. He had a sly, handsome face and eyes that seemed to promise the world.

And the impression wasn't even ruined by him trying to take a peek at her cleavage. Grudgingly, Carmelita relented, like a miser that agrees to part with a penny.

"... _Bonsoir_. I haven't seen you around before," she said.

"Oh, I'm afraid I arrived late," he replied, his voice smooth and pleasant like finely aged wine. "I was lucky not to miss your lovely company. May I ask for your name?"

"Carmelita," she said firmly. "Carmelita Fox. And if you are trying to get in my good graces with sweet nothings, you picked the wrong girl. I am here on Interpol business."

To her surprise, the raccoon's eyes flashed with interest. Flashing her badge was usually enough to send them packing.

"Really? That's... admirable. You must be very good at what you do. How did you end up in such a demanding field?"

Carmelita had to take a moment to readjust, blinking in surprise, as delight and wariness fought for her attention.

While mentioning her profession had always been a handy way to send suitors packing, there had been a small amount of furious pain involved, too. She had watched, bitterly, as prospective suitors hastily backed off with promises to call her later, and tried to convince herself that it was for the better. If they were threatened by her badge, they were most certainly not Mr. Right in the first place.

And it always worked. Eventually.

A smile crept on Carmelita's face, against her will and her notice.

"I… wish for justice," she said. "It is difficult to describe how I came to that decision. You know of icebergs, how most of their mass is under the surface and cannot be seen? I always thought it was like that. Not an easy decision to make, I assure you."

And he was still suspicious to her, every inch of this raccoon and his silver tongue, but,  _well_.

She hadn't had much luck in the field of love. Surely, there was no harm in conversation.

Keeping her suspicions in the back of her mind, Carmelita smiled.

 

* * *

 

Sly noticed her the moment he stepped in the room with the grand old staircase. It was a sort of magnetism, and had less to do with her beauty than her  _presence_. She held herself with strength and purpose, confidence drawn in the lines of her posture. Sly was reminded of the steel cable Bentley sometimes used, immensely strong and flexible, and perfectly capable of hurting you if you were foolish enough to try and break it.

But she  _was_ beautiful, too, with blazing brown eyes and wild curls of blue hair gathered up like a crown of waves. He would have to have been blind to miss that.

…The heist could wait for a few minutes, surely. When would he ever meet her again?

To his delight, she seemed instantly suspicious of him. Not many people had instincts fine enough to distrust him on the spot. A fine policewoman, he thought, a mind as sharp and fierce as her presence. He listened to her talk of herself, because he could not afford to do the same, and found that time slipped away as though swept by a river. It was beneath notice.

"What I despise the most is corruption," she said, and struck her hand in a sharp, angry slash, as though hoping to personally administer proper capital punishment for such offences. "It is bad  _enough_  that criminals make innocent people suffer, but there is no scum worse than someone taking advantage of their position of trust within police."

Sly nodded, because ultimately his sense of honour was very nearly a mirror to the proper side of the law. There were things you did, and things you did not, and there was no honour in corruption.

It really was too bad it couldn't be, he concluded sadly. There was a glint in Carmelita's eye as she spoke, a hint of suspicion and reserve. He couldn't fool her, not completely. And she –

" _Sly, what are you doing?_ " Bentley interrupted with a frustrated whisper. " _We have a schedule to keep up!_ "

Sly almost startled, but it was enough. Carmelita frowned, impeccably painted lips twisting down. Kind of a pity, Sly thought, because her smile was enchanting. But then, it was anger that set her ablaze with passion.

Sly took her hand, and held it regretfully.

"I apologise,  _mademoiselle_. I have a friend to meet, so I must leave your charming company."

Carmelita raised an eyebrow that said she didn't believe one word. Sly almost grinned, before he thought better for it.

"A pity, I'm sure," she said. "Before you go, may I have  _your_  name?"

Sly grinned, and he knew that she knew that he knew. It was a game of words, and the colour behind the words, and he had always known how to play. "Sly. My name is Sly."

And then, Sly was long gone amongst the crowd. Carmelita never did get the chance to ask for his family name.

 

* * *

 

Carmelita firmly wrote the raccoon and his honeyed words under the list of people she would not trust as far as she could throw them. He was up to something, a plot of a sort, and she could see the shape of it, but not the details. The law did not allow for much room for instincts, no matter how fine.

But she kept him in mind, and, when madame Pachyderma Tuskaninny wailed loud enough to rattle the chandeliers, immediately knew who she'd have to track down.

"My necklace! Diva Diamond has been stolen!"

Carmelita suppressed several thoughts that wanted to be curses, and fought her way through the crowd to the hysterical opera singer.

" _Madame_. What happened?"

"Oh,  _sargent_  Fox! You must help me!" madame Tuskaninny cried. "The safe is wide open! My necklace, nowhere in sight!"

It took Carmelita precious minutes to calm the hysterical woman. This was her job, she had to think of more than her need for action.

' _I have a friend to meet_ ,' Sly had said. Even if he was lying, it was highly likely that he  _had_  an accomplice. Dishonesty was difficult to pull off. The very best liars inevitably mixed truth and deceit.

He had worn a very nice suit, and claimed that he had been invited. That, and his slick charm, both seemed to paint him as a conman rather than a burglar. Likely he would use his guise of a legitimate guest to his advantage and slip away from one of the three doors at the ground level, as they were currently not linked to the alarm system. West seemed the most likely bet, with a large crowd to disappear in.

Which meant that she had to head to the maintenance route if she was going to intercept him.

Carmelita kicked off her high heels and took off in a run.

 

* * *

 

Carmelita was wrong on more than one account, which is the risk of operating on lacking information. Sly had not, in fact, broken in to steal the Diva Diamond. Madame Tuskaninny was an opera diva, not a criminal.

One of the directors of the Opera house, now, he was another story altogether. Sly had an eye for all things fine and  _moniseur_  Massimo Perrin owned a truly magnificent collection of antiques. He, too, appreciated lavish things, and was not very discerning about how he got them.

His personal room was filled with gilded and painted masks, jewel-studded Faberge eggs, silver-framed mirrors decorated with pearls, historical manuscripts (which looked the kind of fragile that breaks down if you sneeze on it) and a whole chest of jewelled necklaces and brooches that glittered in the faint light.

Sly's fingers twitched, absently.

When he left, there was considerably less clutter in the room. On the desk was a tiny blue calling card.

 

* * *

 

Sly was well on his way out via the western maintenance corridor when he spotted another person skulking in the shadows.

It wasn't any of Sly's business, per se, but he really was terribly nosy and this person did  _not_  know what proper sneaking was all about. Truly, he might as well have announced he was up to no good. Sly was almost a little offended on behalf of all thieves ever. That kind of shoddy work would only get him caught.

 

* * *

 

Carmelita almost couldn't believe her luck when she ran around a corner and spotted the stage managed, Pierre, trying to sneak his through the western corridor with the kind of exaggerated manner that would have not only caught the attention of everyone around, but also made them follow him around just to see what he was up to.

Really, it was kind of embarrassing. She supposed 'Sly' was the brains of the operation with Pierre as the man inside, but she'd have thought –

Well, she would have thought  _better_  of that raccoon. Carmelita had fine instincts, sharp and fast like the edge of a knife. She had seen something similar in Sly, a confidence that leaned on true ability instead of a braggart's fables.

Carmelita forced herself to move silently, just in case Pierre's boss was still about.

It was something of a wasted effort. Pierre didn't notice her until she had already pressed her shock pistol against his face.

"Police. You're under arrest for suspected theft," she announced firmly. The stage master squeaked and folded like a wet napkin, shaking in his shoes. Carmelita slapped handcuffs around his wrists.

"Better keep  _right there_ , criminal. I still need to find your boss. Unlike you, that Sly isn't an idiot."

"Miss Carmelita, I really must object to that," said a familiar voice. Carmelita whipped around, shock pistol ready, and saw the form of a raccoon clinging to the ceiling beams, leaning away in a manner that seemed to mock the very existence of gravity.

Carmelita almost dropped her weapon in surprise.

She'd thought... No, no use thinking that. Sly was evidently capable of more than sweet-talking and looking good in a suit.

(And she did not, in any way, think he was that much more attractive while hanging off at an impossible angle, as shadows hid him in their embrace. At all.)

"I have nothing to do with him," Sly continued, as if there wasn't a weapon capable of causing first-degree burns and temporary paralysis pointing at him. "And I find the idea of being associated with someone of his ability mildly insulting."

Sly let go of whatever had been holding him up and fell down with a light tap, every bit of him graceful, as though he had been born to acrobatics. He still wore his suit, but had at some point acquired a curious, crooked cane. It glittered gently in the green light of the emergency exit sign.

"Let me introduce myself properly this time. My name is Sly, Sly Cooper."

Carmelita's eyes widened. She'd  _heard_ of him, in passing. The supposed newest representative of that ancient lineage, once thought extinct after an incident of some sort, almost ten years ago. She'd read the files out of vague interest, because the idea had seemed romantic and exciting, and then put it all out of her mind.

Carmelita narrowed her eyes, resolve firm. " _Enchanté_. You are  _also_  under arrest."

"What for?" Sly asked in a tone so overly innocent it wouldn't have fooled a statue. "I already told you, I had nothing to do with Diva Diamond. I don't steal from people who don't deserve it."

"There is an outstanding warrant for your arrest at Interpol," Carmelita said briskly. "And don't think you can talk your way out of breaking the law. I don't care where you think you sit in the food chain, the criminals you steal from still took their loot from honest people."

Sly gave a laugh, and for fleeting seconds there was no show or glamour to him. He looked a little rueful, and self-deprecating. "I suppose we must agree to disagree, then. I'm afraid my will is as strong as yours."

With those words, the moment was over and the thin line between a standstill and action was cut. Carmelita fired a shot, Sly dodged by half an inch and jumped up, hooking his cane in broken staging and climbing along their length. Carmelita shot again and missed, if only because the fragile framework gave away under Sly's weight.

But it was enough to buy him a second, and Sly was gone, shadows wrapping around him, hiding him from view.

Carmelita cursed.

"Don't think this is over,  _Cooper_!"

Naturally, that was when the reinforcements arrived.

 

* * *

 

There had been no reason for Sly and Carmelita to meet.

Crooks were dime to a dozen, and Sly's little gang might have picked another target, or tried their luck on another night. Or, they might not have arrived at all. Carmelita, also, might have been assigned another job to prove herself worthy of a promotion.

Still,  _Il n'y a pas de hasard, il n'y a que des rendez-vous_. And the rest, as they say, was history.

 

* * *

 

Anxiety and anger tore at Carmelita, as she sat in Mr. Barkeley's office, and tapped her foot because she did not like waiting and doing nothing. Especially when her career was at stake.

She'd arrested Pierre, sure, but the bigger fish had gotten away.

Interpol was more progressive about hiring women than any other law enforcement agency. It did not mean they were perfect. Carmelita's one hope and rising dread was the fact that her superior had been making phone calls that seemed to involve yelling at people and calling them all sorts of unflattering things.

Harrumphing one last time, he put down the receiver and fixed Carmelita with a sharp look. "It's a difficult situation. I have to reprimand you, it's the protocol. But you're also too talented to throw away, and no one else has ever seen through a Cooper's act. You closer to him than most people can ever hope for. So, here's what we'll do. You get your promotion, but you'll also get his case. It's… a bit of a dead-end job, because that family is what it is. But it's the best I can do for you."

Carmelita jerked upright, back ramrod straight. A slow grin crept on her face. Really, had they  _already_  decided that catching Cooper was wasted effort, simply because of the  _family name_?

Hah, she'd show them.

"I'll do it. I'll capture Cooper," she said, and stood up. There was a glint of steel in her eyes.

(And when was the last time she had felt so alive?)

 

* * *

 

The new apartment Marcel had 'found' was almost perfect.

That is to say, it was in slight disrepair, the wallpaper was peeling off in places, the plumbing had taken two weeks to repair and there was still a draft that made second blanket a necessity for Bentley, whose reptilian blood sometimes gave him issues with the maintenance of thermal homeostasis (as he put it).

However, the apartment was also located in a quiet neighbourhood that wavered just between reputable and moderately shady and, most importantly, happened to have fallen through the loops and twists that were the French bureaucracy. In other words, no one cared that it was there. The place was invisible to all authorities.

Sly lounged in the balcony, watching as the city woke up with the sun. This was one of the perks of living in the attic, being able to follow everything that went on in the streets. He had always felt more at home high up.

"Okay, Sly, I think we've got a target," came a muffled shout from the living room. Sly craned his neck. The rising sun illuminated the room in pale gold. Their lovely purple wallpaper looked warm and inviting, the golden  _fleurs-de-lis_  pattern almost gleamed, torn as it was and covered in cobwebs.

Bentley was typing furiously in the living room, taking the occasional break to draw something on paper. He had commandeered the large, round table for his plans, and there were papers and blueprints scattered across all available space. There was a cup of fresh coffee, slowly burning a brown circle on a paper full of calculations. Sly picked it up and put it down on its plate. Bentley didn't notice.

" What are you planning?"

"I have found interesting information on Mumbai, India. We've got a lead, Laxmi Paduka. They are a local gang and it turns out they are a big name in stolen treasures. Big historical value, priceless artefacts, relics so important that they will make Nicolas hate us forever. What do you say?"

"India," Sly breathed, tasting the word. "Curry and spices and bustling markets…"

"I'd like some curry," said Murray hopefully.

 

* * *

 

Mumbai was an odd mix of old and new – skyscrapers could reach for the sky right next to an old temple. Polished metropolitan areas concealed ramshackle slums and lively markets. There was a constant heat in the air. Even the evenings were barely tolerable, the air still having the promise and lingering touch of the merciless sun of the day.

Their hotel was a dingy one, with squeaky beds and barely functional showers. The lizard clerk at the front had a slick, untrustworthy smile and a poor grasp of English.

They had all been tired after the long ride, feeling like all of the dust of the little roads they had travelled had lodged under their eyelids. After twelve hours of sleep, they were feeling mostly alive again.

Sly yawned, sitting cross-legged on his bunk and nursing his cup of espresso. His fur was rumpled from sleep.

"So, Bentley, what's the plan?"

Bentley blinked sleepily, scratching at his jaw. "You'll be meeting our informant in the afternoon, a ten minute drive without counting traffic. Until then, uh, I think we could use some breakfast."

"I'm on it, Bentley!" Murray said, sounding rather cheerful at the prospect of food. His stomach gurgled in agreement.

"I need to go through this data, but there's really not much to do at the moment. I could use some data, if you don't mind scouting the area. I think there is a bazaar nearby."

"Sounds good. I'll be back before you know it."

Sly jumped on his feet and yanked the window open. A gust of hot, moist air poured through.

"No, wait, Sly – "

He was too late. Sly was already gone.

 

* * *

 

An overwhelming heat permeated the air, like a suffocating, wet blanket. The season was summer, and everyone waited for the arrival of monsoon. Sly was sweltering under his fur.

The market was a little noisy in the same way an ocean is slightly moist. The sound seemed almost a living thing, invading the air and nearly solid. Merchants competed for customers with commendable enthusiasm, as shoppers examined the available eyes with a critical eye.

Everything was on sale, and everything was colourful. Sly stopped for a moment to examine a stall of spices. There were piles and piles of powder in reds and greens and yellows, small black kernels alongside large grey seeds, heaps of other grains of all shapes and shades. Vanilla and cinnamon were stacked next to little dry star shaped things that he didn't recognise.

Sly thought that he could have wandered for days and not see even a fraction of it all. There were booths that sold robes of all sorts and colours or old books (that smelled of leather) and almost authentic antiques, as well as questionable little stalls that offered things that had presumably fallen off the back of one truck or another.

It was a pure luck that he saw her before she noticed him. But then, hearing one's own name is like a charm, something you can pick out from conversation even when your mind is entirely elsewhere.

"I want you to be on the lookout. I have every reason to believe that a wanted criminal, Sly Cooper, is in town."

Without really thinking of it, Sly slipped through the robes, blending in even with his grey fur and blue fabric. He peeked out, careful not to move, and his heart jolted.

Carmelita Fox was walking through the bazaar as though it was her personal turf. People moved out of her way, not the other way around. Behind her trailed officers of the Indian police, who seemed to be rather out of their depth.

Absently, Sly thought she looked even lovelier like this, in casual jeans and the sun of India gleaming on her bright fur. Her gait was a saunter, that of a predator on the prowl. And he, the prey. Presumably.

Sly grinned.

Minutes later, he slipped through the tiny window of the hotel, his shopping hanging from the hook of his cane. Breakfast had arrived while he was out, and seemed to consist mostly of flat bread and dishes that had chickpeas and lentils mixed with vegetables.

"Guys, there's a complication. Cops are in town. Interpol has tracked us down."

" _What_? This is going to complicate everything! I need to revise my plans for... Sly, why are you smiling?"

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the meeting place was in an opium den.

Sly took careful note of his surroundings and tried not to breathe in the fumes. The place was underground, and the only light came from small lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Most of the patrons were lounging on silk pillows, expressions vacant. They didn't pay attention to him, but then, they also looked like nothing short of an elephant on a rampage would be able to garner more than a glance. Smoke drifted in the air.

This was just the place for exchanging sensitive information that could not see the light of the day. All that mattered were the dreams and the smoke.

"I take it that you are Mr Cooper, then," asked a slightly accented voice. A person wearing a purple robe sat next to Sly. A hood covered his entire face. It was impossible to see anything but the glint of his eyes.

"I might be," Sly said, taking a careful sip of his tea. "If  _you_ are from the Purple Sherwani. Very oppressing, the weather we seem to be having."

His informant nodded. The phrase was as agreed.

"Ah, yes. I am glad that you have been punctual. It  _is_ , how do you say it, unpleasant outside. The monsoon is arriving, I do not wish to dawdle. It is best that we are quick about this."

"Yeah," Sly said, trailing a finger on the edge of his glass. He glanced at his drinking partner from the corner of his eye, expression unreadable. "But why are you helping me out? Getting rid of competition?"

"Yes and no," the man in the robe said. "They are, how do you say,  _distasteful_. We do not wish to do business in their vicinity. Because of the highly patriarchal culture we have, many men in India are left wishing for a wife and without adequate morals how to go about courting. And when there is a demand, there will also be someone to provide a... service."

Sly's eyes widened. "You don't mean -"

"You understand now, yes? We have standards. However, we are still not a charity. It is unthinkable to involve the police. But if you were to bankrupt them, we would not feel sorry."

He stood up and wiped invisible wrinkles off his pristine robe. Then, he dropped a folder on the table. Sly picked it up, frowning. This would be a more complicated mission than he had thought.

" _Phir milenge_ , mr. Cooper. It has been a pleasure. I hope our paths cross again."

 

* * *

 

Moonlight shone through the high, open windows of the temple of Siddhivinayak, failing to do much beyond giving the darkness a shape.

Then, a shadow moved. The shape flitted from one dark corner to another, nearly invisible and footsteps silent as a feather.

Sly paused, letting his fingertips run on the surface of an ancient relief. It depicted the form of an elephant, with a broken tusk and several arms.

This was a temple dedicated to the god of success, Ganesha. Seemingly respectable, under the reputable halls of worship was a den of vice and depravity, where rich men could lose themselves in drink or opium dreams. Or other things.

However, this late at night, or this early in the morning, even that side of the temple slept.

Sly moved, and the shadows embraced him. This part of his life was not something he could share with Bentley and Murray.

The stillness of the night and the lack of light seemed to give life to old memories, as though imprints of life had been left in the stone. He could almost hear the voices of people who had once walked these same hallways, on their way to worship Ganesha and ask for his favour. There had been priests, old wives wearing faded saris, young men wishing for success…

He didn't move silently just because of his profession, didn't take care because he was good at what he did. It seemed rude to disturb the echoes of lost ages.

He wondered if Murray and Bentley would ever be able to sense what he did, those whispers that were barely there, and as fragile as thousand-year old paper.

It was times like this when he best remembered his own history. For thousands of years, his ancestors had been doing this same thing. If only they had left something behind, something tangible, beyond words on ancient pages and a faint feeling...

Were they watching him? Could he measure up to what was expected of him?

Sly shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden melancholy.

The inner sanctum housed a giant red statue of Ganesha, now decorated with chains of flowers. His belly reminded Sly vividly of Murray.

The stone slab looked very solid, and gave the impression that anyone foolish enough to try to lift it would have to say goodbye to their fingers. Sly lodged his cane through a small chip on the edge and pulled. Slowly, the stone gave way and revealed an entrance.

"Bentley, I'm going in."

"Roger. I'm setting up for phase two."

The lower floors were dark. This was a darkness thick enough to cut through, and covered everything like a formless void. To bring light here seemed more than a poor idea. It would have broken rules.

In contrast to the dark hallways, the treasure chamber was brightly lit. Sly made a soundless whistle.

There were ancient gold coins from East India Company, antique silver, heavy gold necklaces, a carved throne studded with emeralds, piles and piles of diamonds, one of them a bright jewel the size of an ostrich egg – the legendary Kohinoor diamond. And other things.

He reached down and picked up a large red stone, admiring its skilful filigree setting. In the light of the lanterns, the rock seemed to have its own inner glow. He thought it rather matched the fire in Carmelita's eyes.

Then, an alarm blared.

 

* * *

 

Carmelita was halfway through the temple when the alarm shrieked, shrill and jarring. The false peace was disturbed, like an anthill poked with a stick, as angry shouts and screams bounced off the stone walls.

Carmelita cursed and ran. She was not about to give up, even if this exposure made Cooper run like a rat escaping a sinking ship, because there was the chance he would  _not_.

As of yet she had not learned much of her opponent, because Sly was both new to the game and  _good_  at it. But one thing was clear enough.

Sly Cooper was arrogant.

The calling cards were an obvious sign, but Cooper also insisted on driving around in that one blue van with the ridiculously obvious licence plate 'Sly-1'. Everything he did, up to and including his choices of targets, seemed designed to show off.

The world had to  _know_  what he had done.

But it would cost him. Carmelita wasn't the youngest inspector in decades for her shooting skills alone.

And then, a soft, fearful voice spoke out to her.

"Police? Are you police? Wait! Please! Please, you must help us!"

The English was clunky, but despair was clear in her voice, much in the same manner a forest is clear after a fire.

Carmelita blinked, and stopped in her tracks. She flashed her light to the direction of the voice, and a group of young women hid their eyes from the sudden brightness, covering in a corner.

"What are  _you_  doing here?"

"We are prisoners," said the first woman. She was a dhole, and might have passed for a fox if she was not in the vicinity of Carmelita. Her robes were bright red and revealing, and golden bracelets jingled when she lifted her arms in a beseeching gesture.

Carmelita could tell that the person in front of her was of the sort that instinctively understands they are braver than others, which in her opinion tended to be an ungrateful position. But it had also made her take the chance, and reach out to the foreigner. The dhole stepped closer, encouraged now.

"If we stay, we get sold. You are woman. You must understand."

Carmelita froze.

Somewhere, Sly Cooper was no doubt getting away with his crimes. If she wanted to catch him, she had to keep moving. Staying here, helping these women, would mean that she'd have to deal with whoever it was that had been keeping these people in.

She sighed, and lowered her searchlight.

"Come along, then. I'll get you out of here."

 

* * *

 

Before an hour passed, the relatively low-key stake-out mission had blown up into a full-scale Situation. There were enough cars to blockade every road leading to the temple, and blue-red lights flickered in the dark of the night.

Carmelita was in a foul mood. She'd apparently busted a major operation for person trafficking, as well as smuggling of priceless lost treasures, and that sort of thing always seemed to end in up with a lot of people wandering around, trying to look busy, as clunky police protocols of crime scene ran their course. The Director General of the Indian police himself had arrived twenty minutes after the barricades had been set, looking harried and still wearing his nightcap. He'd made a pest of himself from the get-go, following Carmelita and apologising over and over for his perceived failure. Eventually Carmelita snapped and told him tartly that if he wanted to atone, he should do what he could for the rescued victims. (He had looked horrified, and rushed off to make sure there were blankets and drinking water for everyone.)

Amidst the chaos, she had not seen hair or tail of Sly Cooper.

She gritted her teeth together, and walked off, making a hasty excuse about getting more coffee.

Outside the circle of lights, she let the wind of Mumbai caress her face. It wasn't much of a relief when it came to heat, the impending monsoon kept the air humid and oppressive.

"As I thought, you really are the best kind of cop," Sly said.

Sly Cooper was lounging on top of an electric pole, a shadow against the full moon. His pack was the only bulky thing she could see, the rest being all about smooth lines and flickering tail.

Carmelita froze, for the briefest moment. Then, she went for her gun.

"How dare you? Using those girls to distract me, despicable!"

Sly lifted his hands in defence.

"Come now, inspector. We were after the treasure, I only found out about the ladies after we were already in the middle of the operation. And  _I_  couldn't possibly have saved them, I'm a criminal."

"All the same," Carmelita hissed. "Hand over whatever it is that you took. The artefacts belong to the country of India."

"No can do," said Sly. "It's my reward, for finding the lost treasure."

Carmelita shot, and the electric discharge singed Sly's ear. Then, with one last twist of his ringed tail, he was gone.

Carmelita ran after him, shooting at every moving shadow.

 

* * *

 

"Was that  _really_  necessary?"

Sly couldn't see his friends properly in the dark of the van, but Bentley's voice practically dripped with disapproval. Sly's grin was more a reflex than a conscious thought.

"Oh, come on pal. Just a bit of fun."

"You smell like singed fur."

"I know. What a woman."

Bentley buried his face in his hands.

"In any case," Sly said, ignoring his friend. "I've been thinking… it's time."

There was no need to ask what Sly meant. All of their effort, all of their plans, eventually culminated into one thing.

Sly leaned back against his seat, and flicked his cane. Every scratch was familiar, every stain and imperfection. From the hazy memories he had of Thievius Raccoonus, many Coopers had made a new cane for themselves, at some point in their lives. There was so much he didn't know.

Sly carried a weight that came from history, of countless generations of ancestors. There was no visible sign of the burden, but it was still there, in his mind's shoulders, heavy as lead and impossible to shake off. He could never outrun or escape it, because he did not want to, and though Bentley's mind understood, his heart did not. Not really. It was something you had to be born to.

And though Sly wanted vengeance, it was not the kind of burning passion that would consume him whole. Bentley thought that it was rather the flame of a forge, and would temper Sly into something great.

The little blue van drove on, a shadow and a light in the dark of night. The moon shone bright and white, blessing them with the pale light of night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter you almost didn't get to read. My laptop recently went on an adventure, sailing around somewhere in Europe, and I had all but given up ever getting it back. Then, I got a random email that said it had been found after all. I don't even want to know, honestly.
> 
> (That was a gross lie. I want to know like burning.)
> 
> But anyway. It would have taken me ages to try and write this chapter again, from the half-finished draft I had in my (badly outdated) safe copies. And it would not have been the same, at all. So rejoice. Or something.
> 
> To be honest, I'm actually kind of glad this story isn't too popular. I can just write whatever without having to worry.
> 
> I hope I managed to write Carmelita well. I used to dislike her for years, but I don't believe in character bashing. I read the comic that depicted her and Sly's first meeting, and disapproved immensely. It did her a huge disservice, implying that she only got promoted because Sly fancied her and wanted to help. No. In my story, she gets about on her own effort.
> 
> 'Il n'y a pas de hasard, il n'y a que des rendez-vous' means something like 'There is no such thing as chance, only encounters'.
> 
> The temple of Siddhivinayak is real. Of course, the real one isn't secretly a criminal hideout. I also hope I'm not coming across as implicating that India is somehow a world capital in human traffic or anything. It's a very international problem.


	5. Best served cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to start the quest.

 

The plan was almost finished.

"What we need now is information," Bentley said and yawned. He looked like he'd slept just enough to function and was trying to make up for the rest of it by coffee.

The morning sun shone clear and bright above Paris and peeked through the windows of their hideout. The dull roar of distant traffic and the steady murmur of thousands of people drifted in through the open doors of their balcony.

Sly nursed his _café au lait_ , scratching idly at the mussed fur on top of his head. He was not a morning person. Something about the sun made him want to pull the curtains close and crawl back under his blanket. _Too exposed_ , said his instincts. _Wait for nightfall_.

Next to him, Murray was eating French pancakes (with powdered sugar and strawberries). The smell drifted gently throughout the hideout. He was the only one who was properly awake.

Bentley frowned at his laptop and tapped in a few more mysterious commands. "Considering the circumstances of the events ten years ago," he said, "I believe we should, ah, _consult_ the police. They have most likely amassed a great amount of information about you and your family. If we can get to those secret police files, they might lead us to the correct direction."

"You sure about that, Bentley?" Sly said, scratching at his chin. The very idea seemed vaguely disagreeable to Sly. It was like brushing your hair the wrong way. "We're good, but it's the _cops_. I don't know if I want to break into a place where holding cells are waiting downstairs."

Bentley raised what might have been his eyebrow. Sly thought no turtle should be able to look that unimpressed behind a pair of near-opaque glasses. "Really? I would have thought you would have jumped at the chance to break into the office of inspector Fox."

"On the other hand, I have absolute faith in you. Let's go."

* * *

_Paris, France, 4.20 a.m._

There was something unnerving about breaking into the police headquarters, for the same reason people generally didn't feel at home in a graveyard. Every instinct Sly had inherited urged him to turn around go back the way he had come.

But then again, some other part, one that was reckless and insane and probably hadn't been inherited from anyone, was _thrilled_.

Sly looked at the police headquarter building through his binocucom. The place was tall and angular and unfriendly. It _loomed_. It made you feel vaguely guilty and think about any crimes you might have committed recently.

Sly would have had to write a list.

He laughed silently and leaped off the edge of the roof. He landed on a gaudy fluorescent sign that spelled out 'le police', and leaped again, using his momentum.

The roof of the police HQ seemed to have been abandoned at least a decade ago. Cooling fans whirred and recycled the night air, clanking and creaking and complaining. For some reason, someone had abandoned a mattress on the roof, presumably to develop an ecosystem and gather a coat of dirt before migrating to a suitable attic.

"Sly! Come in! Sly! Do you read me?"

Sly winced and adjusted his ear piece. "Yeah, I read you. Loud and... very loud."

"Sorry," Bentley said, voice trembling. "I'm a little nervous. Breaking into the police headquarters does that. Can you see the air vent?"

"I can," Sly confirmed. "No security measures, from what I can see. Seems like even Interpol tries to save funds wherever it can."

"Well, I _do_ have it on good authority that there have been no less than twenty-six appeals on the subject of upgrading the building security," Bentley admitted. There was a sound of distant clicking. "But that doesn't mean you can afford to let your guard down!"

"Fine, fine," Sly said. "I won't stop to see the sights, you spoilsport."

He cut off the connection and jumped off his perch on top of the old spotlight.

He _was_ a little nervous, and not just because this was police territory. This job wasn't like all of their previous heists. This was his _duty_ , not something he could just give up… unless he was prepared to let his family name bite the dust. And he would be in his cold, cold grave before that happened. Literally, as the case may be.

 _Please_ , he thought, at no one in particular. _If any of you are there, watching me… grant me luck_. Then he moved on and climbed up the ramp to reach the water silo.

And, for the first time in his life, Sly Cooper saw the dancing blue lights.

He froze, one foot in the air. He lifted his hand to activate his comm link, and let it fall back down. This seemed a little too raw, too private, to share with the guys just yet. When the world turned upside down and your thoughtless prayer was answered, you had to give that a moment's reflection.

His father had told him about this. 'Stealth auras' were something master thieves were able to perceive. They were a thief's luck, a glimpse at an opportunity they could exploit. And, of all times, he saw them now?

"Is this some sort of a message?" he asked out loud. "Are you there, somewhere? Dad? Ancestors?"

No answers were forthcoming. Sly stepped forward and walked along the road of blue lights.

* * *

The air vents of the Interpol HQ were ancient behemoths, built before the energy crisis of the seventies when everyone thought gasoline grew in trees. There was enough space for Sly to stand straight and casually stroll along. Of course, once he reached the elevator shaft, he found a net of laser beams stretching down along its length. This was apparently the limit of complacency and lack of funding.

This latest batch of laser security technology was designed with capture in mind – the yellow beams did not harm, but triggered the alarm and turned into burning red. The intent was, presumably, to force an intruder to wait nicely in one place until guards arrived. It seemed almost foolishly optimistic to Sly.

He jumped down and twisted in the air, body contorting in a way that suggested his spine was made of something gelatinous, and landed on the bottom without singing his tail. Yellow light shone softly on his fur, harmless and quiet. He wedged open the elevator doors and went inside.

There was always something spooky about usually-crowded places when they were left empty and abandoned at night. Like the echoes of people's lives still inhabited the space. 'Kenopsia', Bentley had called the feeling, that one time when Sly had made a mention of it.

That Bentley. Always thinking.

Sly stole further along the empty hallways, his footsteps silent on the green tiled floor.

This was the place where Carmelita worked, Sly thought. She walked these pathways under the light of the sun, or, more likely, the light of the fluorescent lamps that hung above. She used the coffee machines at the crack of dawn, when no one should be forced out of the bed. There was a wall of cards where she logged in her hours.

They lived very different lives, she and he. In this place, he saw the echoes of hers.

The door to Carmelita's office was an angry, forbidding red and locked tighter than Bentley's database security.

But people always overlook something. This time it was the window. Sly opened the hatch, slipped out into the night and inched left along a tiny ledge. The next window, leading to the office, was easy to pick. He slipped in and clicked on his small penlight to take in the room.

Carmelita's room was full of books, folders of data and general paperwork that was probably important but not enough to make her actually do it. Some of it was piled on top of the horrific plastic-covered sofa, but most of it inhabited the desk and seemed to be making an effort to ensure no spare space whatsoever would ever be available.

Sly picked up a pile of documents. There were methodical notes about clues, witness statements, crime scene reports, even ideas about his possible movements scribbled on the margins of official accounts. On the wall was a map, where photos were pinned and certain locations circled in red. It tracked his movements… really quite well.

There were also notes full of furious scribbles and curse words written so savagely that the pen had ripped through the paper. There was a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky hidden behind a pile of books. Pieces of paper had been scrunched into little balls and thrown at the trash can, which had tipped over at some point.

Sly imagined the scene, and laughed quietly in his throat.

"Sly, what are you doing?" Bentley's voice interrupted. "Crack the vault and steal the files we need. You need to get out. I'm afraid you're about to get company."

"Roger that."

* * *

"Cooper!"

Sly skidded to a halt at the top of fire exit, grinning despite himself. "Ah, Carmelita. Haven't seen you in a while. Mumbai, wasn't it?"

"Don't remind me!" Carmelita hissed. "The Fire Stone of India, and a long list of other priceless treasures you made off with, while I was doing my job and saving people! The arm of the law is long, Cooper, and your arrogance will be your end!"

Sly opened his mouth, but was forced to leap to dodge a shot of electricity before he could say anything. Ah, so she was still angry. He supposed he couldn't expect anything else.

Still, it did smart a _little_. He'd wanted to save the ladies, too.

He dropped down to the parking lot, which was in the sort of condition that was a reflection of the usual rush hour traffic in Paris. Sly wondered how the cops usually went to work, seeing how most of their vehicles were now hopelessly trapped behind other vehicles. Perhaps they all slept in the cellar. Carmelita definitely seemed to have been hanging about long after office hours.

He made a sharp turn around the street corner as another shot crackled past his ear. The hook of his cane caught on a convenient light pole, and he found the back door of the team van waiting in welcome. Bentley was peeking out, adjusting his glasses and making nervous gestures for Sly to hurry up.

Sly leaped in, a blur of grey and blue. The doors slammed close, and the van sped off into the night of Paris.

Somewhere behind, Carmelita cursed.

* * *

"Looks like we're heading to Wales first," said Bentley, gesturing at the police files scattered on the table. "There's no concrete evidence, but the police suspect one of the Fiendish Five has a base there."

Bentley tapped on his laptop, frowning at whatever he saw on the screen. He had built the machine himself, quite some time ago. (Sly had spent the week making increasingly stronger coffee and trying to coax Bentley into taking naps and eating dinner.)

Somehow, though, the laptop never seemed to be quite finished. One part or another was always outdated and had to be replaced. If Bentley built a gadget that was cutting edge this week, chances were he'd renounce it as out of date a month or two later.

The current model was slim and sleek and capable of a long list of things that were multisyllabic and went right in Sly's ear and out of the other. But they all tended to be like that.

"Hmm. Now, this is interesting. It appears that this 'sir Raleigh' has last been sighted near the now infamous Welsh Triangle. There has been a strange increase in storms in that particular are in the last ten years."

"I doubt that's a coincidence," Sly said. "But why would he want to live in a place with the worst weather in the whole of UK?"

"A criminal might benefit from it," Bentley said. "The Isle O'Wrath is in the St George's Channel, a major shipping route between Ireland and the UK. The constant storms must have caused any number of shipwrecks during these ten years."

"The files do mention him having a history in piracy," Sly agreed, flipping through reports and witness statements. "As well as a degree in mechanical engineering from the Imperial College of London. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find the means how to scavenge sunken wrecks."

"So, how are we going to get there?" Murray asked, words muffled by the slice of pizza he was eating. "The van can't drive through water."

"Oh, I'm sure Marcel will be 'happy' to help us," Sly said, and the corner of his lip curled into an impish grin. "If only because we've been holding that favour over his head for almost two years now. I can't imagine that has improved his disposition towards us."

* * *

"This freight carrier will take you and your van to Dover," Marcel said, scowling. "It is a small port city in England. Whatever you do from there is not my business, and I don't want to hear about it."

"Thank you, Marcel," Sly said. "I appreciate this. The van is not exactly a common sight here."

Marcel shrugged. "Some bigwig called Black Baron is holding his annual dogfight competition in Holland, next month. Enough mechanical parts are imported from _l'île de Bretagne_ that no one has the time to audit cargo accounts."

"Lucky for us," Sly said. "And, as they say, swallow a toad in the morning if you want to encounter nothing more disgusting for the rest of the day. Let's get this mission underway."

Murray turned the wheel, and the van started to inch its way inside the great cargo ship that sat against the docks like a whale that has heaved itself on a shore to die. Massive crates were being loaded inside. None of the workers looked twice at the van.

* * *

The Welsh coast was, indeed, caught in a storm. Storm clouds coiled in the sky like smoke, occasionally illuminated by a flash of lightning. Rain pelted down on the roof of the van and, for once, Murray had to follow speed limits to keep them on the muddy, slippery road.

The little village that huddled on the coast near the Isle O'Wrath had seen better days. Many buildings were abandoned, their windows dark and doors boarded up. Yards were overgrown and gloomy.

Murray parked the van in an empty warehouse near the harbour. Its windows were broken and most roof tiles had fallen off. For sale, announced a rusty sign in the yard.

They went to visit the local tavern, the Wrecked Walrus, for some gossip and hot soup. It was mostly full of old men, who were mostly bitter and mostly looked like they hadn't been properly dry in years. Sly went to the counter and announced that he'd buy everyone a round, to a general incoherent cheering.

"It's been going downhill fer years now," said an elderly dugong, accepting his pint of ale with a grateful grunt. "Mind you, weather always came and went in these parts. But it din't used to be so bad. Nowadays, I'm lucky if I get one or two proper hauls a week. Can't make a decent living out of that. And the young folk are all leaving for the big city; only us old hands are left. Me and my wife, we're too old for movin'. Don't know what'll happen once arthr'ts makes it so I can't fish anymore."

He gulped down his ale, contemplating his bleak fate. The other old men around him agreed, muttering about rusting equipment and lost hauls and broken nets.

"So, if we needed to get to the Isle nearby, how would we go about it?" Sly asked. The old man peered at him suspiciously from underneath his bushy eyebrows.

"I'll lend you folks a fishing boat, if yer so eager to drown yerselves," he said. "Don't know what anyone would want out there that ain't fish. I recon' I don't want to know."

* * *

Hours later, they found Raleigh's hideout. The massive galleon was moored on the west side of the isle. There was a great hole in its side. Inside it was a burning, broiling inferno, like a glimpse into hell. Everywhere around the ship were wrecked husks of ships.

Sly peeked from under the oilskin. Bentley was leaning against his back, shell shaking and teeth rattling. Waves rocked their little boat, trying and failing to capsize it, and Sly absently curled his tail around Bentley for safety.

"Murray? How are you doing?"

"I think we should have floats in the van," Murray said, shivering under his rain coat and his blanket and his second rain coat. "Water should stay _under_ the boat."

"Yeah, I'm with you there. I don't think we can make it to his hideout on this boat. We should go find shelter for the night. I think I need at least a week to dry."

* * *

They found an almost dry cave, which was liveable enough after Sly chased off the resident crabs. They made camp and a fire and put their clothes up to dry.

"So, here's the plan for tomorrow," Bentley said, absently sucking the tip of his pen. He pulled it out of his mouth and made a note on the margin of his map. "I think we can assume that Raleigh spends most, if not all, of his time inside that blimp. If we are to get at him, we should make it land first. And that means taking out the storm machine."

"How are we going to do that?"

Bentley drew several circles on the map. "Well, I'm not sure how it's built. This is not exactly common technology. See if you can find Raleigh's office and locate the blueprints for me."

* * *

Sly slept fitfully that night, plagued by nightmares of shadows and claws and blood.

He woke with a start. Their camp was bathed in the grey light of the new day, streaming in through the mouth of the cave and chasing off the lingering terror.

Sly stretched, yawned and went outside. Tatters of fog clung to the ground, slowly vaporising under the bright glare of the sunlight. Sly took a look around.

Raleigh had made his presence clear enough. The only road to his hideout was blocked by a tall fence and a hideous security gate. A sign decorated with flaming skulls, and suffering from a bad case of terrible taste, screamed at him: No Trespassing!

Sly pulled the sign off the ground and tossed it away, mostly out of spite. Then he went inside the cave, coaxed the embers of the campfire into a proper fire, and made some coffee. He tapped his feet against the floor as he waited for the smell to rouse his friends.

Sly could be patient when he had to. He just didn't want to. He'd already been patient for ten years. He had finally caught up with the past, after a long time of watching and waiting and dreaming about it. Now was the time to beat up the past and make it pay.

* * *

Raleigh was one of those people who had all the resources to turn his hideout into one giant trap for a thief, and failed to do so because he lacked the necessary imagination and persistence. It wasn't enough to build a bloody giant security gate, you had to make sure you didn't leave convenient pipes hanging onto the side of it. All the spotlights and enforced metal gates and guards couldn't cover for those small leaks.

Then again, he might have counted on a constant input of water to fill the bucket that was leaking. In that he was onto a good thing, because water wasn't lacking in the Isle O'Wrath. The whole island was besieged by brooks and streams and creeks that divided the land into little slices.

The thing was, no thief liked water. It made solid footholds slippery, rusted through the convenient pipe you were climbing, and got into your fur and made it heavy.

Sly waded through stream after stream, cursed the water that leaked though his waterproof shoes and resisted the urge to make impolite gestures in Raleigh's general direction. Should he fall, there was a thirty-foot drop to the ocean below.

Sly was an excellent swimmer, as long as the water was completely still and not too cold or deep and he didn't have to swim for more than five consecutive minutes.

Eventually, he made it through. Sly caught his cane on a convenient hook and swung over another security gate. On the other side were old turbines and pipes, rattling and clunking as currents of water went past. In Sly's ear, Bentley mumbled something about generators and security systems, but Sly was barely listening.

There, right in front of him, was Raleigh's ship. Up close, it looked like a small village built on top of a ship wreck. Small buildings clustered around each other, as if huddling for warmth, surrounded by a siege wall of broad green leaves and thorny vines that coiled into hostile traps for the unwary climber.

Above the blimp was a tornado that churned out the slicing wind and the freezing rain that had made crossing the ocean so difficult.

So, this was where it would begin, the fate he had chased for ten years. A ship and a stormy sea.

* * *

 

Author's notes:

A wild update appeared. I'd originally intended to write this story to the end first and start updating after, but I've been marinating in this chapter and that's usually a sign that I should post it before I edit it to the death.

The story heads into canon territory in this chapter. I try my best to respect the source material, but some things can't be explained away. I'm just going to ignore the treasure keys outright. 


	6. Ill-mannered guests

 

Raleigh's ship had seen better days.

The wood was rotten and covered with a carpet of algae and tiny crusty animals that huddled together for safety. There were holes on the side of the hull, exposing the skeletal timber and the hellish fires that fuelled the machine. It looked like it had been sentenced for the scrapyard years ago, and had barely escaped its fate.

Sly gripped the rope, and managed to climb three feet before putting his foot through the bulwark.

Raleigh apparently had no concept of worker safety regulations. A true British nobleman.

Just as Sly reached the deck, loudspeakers blared.

"I say, chaps, my heartiest congratulations to you all. The storm machine sunk its fiftieth ship last night and the loot has already been unloaded. Our operation is moving along splendidly, with the possible exception being THE GROSS NEGLIGENCE DISPLAYED BELOW DECKS. I demand the boiler stay at full pressure at all times. If you lazy, low-browed, TEHNICALLY INCOMPETENT PACK OF GUTTERSNIPES DID YOUR JOB RIGHT, WE'D HAVE SOME UPPER-CLASS SHIPS BY NOW AND… But, of course, fifty ships is a fine, fine achievement. Carry on, my boys, carry on."

Sly peeked over the edge, careful not to make sudden movements, and took in his surroundings.

Something about the décor of Raleigh's hideout screamed of bad taste. It might have been the red velvet carpet slowly rotting away in the endless rain, or the tacky statue of an anglerfish sulking in the middle of the broken fountain.

Sly shook his head. There was no helping some people.

A couple of walruses in blue overalls were walking past his spot. They had the sullen look of underpaid, unappreciated blue-collar workers everywhere.

"Bloody insane, the boss is," said one. He coughed up a lump of phlegm and spat. There was a distant metallic _thunk_. "One of these days, I'm going to march up to him and speak my mind," he continued, flexing his biceps with all the confidence that came from knowing the boss was nowhere near to hear him.

The other walrus looked nervous. "Should we head up, Joe? The game's about to start."

"You just watch," said Joe, cracking his knuckles. "I'm going to show him what's what."

"Reception is still shite like always, but the ale's cold," said not-Joe. "And one of the lads from the gunboat graveyard fixed the water heater."

Joe hesitated, torn between toothless spite and the siren call of football. "Yeah, all right. I could use a pint."

Then, they were gone. Sly waited for a moment to be sure, and climbed on the deck proper. First of all, he had to find Raleigh's office. In the absence of blueprints, Sly had to take the old fashioned way to recon – poke his nose everywhere it wasn't wanted.

Sly followed the ratty velvet carpet and went through the pair of doors that overlooked the courtyard. Behind them was a corridor lined with more terrible velvet and gaudy artwork.

While Raleigh had abandoned his life of luxury and privilege, he seemed determined to remind everyone of his roots. Everywhere were statues of frogs, paintings of frogs, suits of armour suitable for frogs, family trees of frog nobility and glass-cases full of priceless heirlooms that, while not actually frog-shaped, were definitely of the stumpy and gloomy persuasion.

Beyond the sloppy laser defences was not an office, but a round room filled with water and lily pads and piles of treasure. Firelight danced on the surface of the water and made the gold and jewels glow like embers. Lily pads swayed gently on the current.

" _This_ is what he does with his treasure? I don't know if I should be disturbed or… no, no, definitely disturbed."

"What? What are you talking about?" Bentley's voice crackled in Sly's ear.

"Nothing, Bentley. I'll need to try another door."

Sly went back to the deck. Most of the other doors seemed to be for maintenance, but there was one likely-looking pair on a ledge above.

 

* * *

 

Beyond the doors was a library, one of those where books seem to be more for decoration than reading. There were rows and rows of bookshelves, towering on both sides of the narrow hallway. And, unlike nearly everything else on Raleigh's ship, the place was both well-tended and dry.

However, with all ships come rats. They squeaked at Sly and scurried away, jumping out of the metaphorical frying pan and into the fire. As soon as they stepped on the rug, two finely painted globes opened up and pegged them down. Blood splattered on the carpet.

Sly whistled. "Would you look at that," he said. "Raleigh has the latest state-of-the-art laser security at his disposal and he goes and booby-traps his library with dart guns."

"He does seem to be a bit of a traditionalist," Bentley said, sounding like he was probably rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He takes pride in his mechanical contraptions. Using lasers would be like admitting that his own work is not sufficient. But I won't be able to disable them from the distance. If we are to destroy his storm machine, I will need to see the blueprints."

"That's what I'm here for, pal."

Sly considered. He could probably find a way around the dart machines; this would not be the first or the last time he climbed bookshelves. But all it would take was one hit. The darts had not just killed the rats, they'd nailed the vermin on the floor.

Sly nudged one with his foot. The corpse didn't budge.

There was always another way. Sir Galleth had had his armour, Tennessee Kid had had his guns…

There were several barrels stacked up next to a service entrance. Sly rolled out the one that looked to be in the best condition. He knocked on wood, and it made a satisfying solid _thump_. Sly slammed his cane against the bottom, creating a hole large enough to slip through. The stench of wine hit him like a physical presence, but he slipped into his makeshift disguise and took a cautious step on the booby-trapped rug. The dart guns fired. The barrel trembled, but held.

 _This is my life_ , Sly thought, amused, as he inched over the carpet. _I am hiding in a barrel to avoid becoming a glorified pincushion_. Somehow, his father's stories had failed to prepare him for this particular reality of a thief's life.

However, there were still guards. In any normal situation, Sly could have melted into the shadows and snuck past them. However, with his barrel, all he could do was… well, melt into the shadows and sneak past. But slower.

After two hours of careful sneaking, Sly found Raleigh's office. It was a tiny room that overflowed with blueprints, notes and miscellaneous correspondence. For whatever reason, there were even notes inside green glass bottles.

Sly carefully inched one piece of paper out through the slippery bottleneck. It was a note, apparently written in some sort of code. He pocketed it for Bentley.

There were blueprints lying about, but none of them had to do with the storm machine. However, hidden under the general clutter was a safe. Sly pressed his ear against the metal and rolled the combination lock, inch by careful inch.

_shurr – shurr – shurr – click_

Sly opened the safe. There were more blueprints, possibly of interest. He pocketed them. Lying innocently on the upper shelf was also, for some reason, a horseshoe.

Sly tilted it in the light of the fireplace – and how about that, a roaring fire in a library, Raleigh hadn't heard of fire safety regulations either – but the horseshoe didn't seem to be anything special. Just an ordinary horseshoe.

Sly pocketed it anyway.

There were also documents, most of them of the vaguely incriminating kind. Some of them mentioned 'spice', some were **trade manifestos** for antiques.

Sly left those papers behind. Raleigh's other business wasn't important. When Sly was done with his revenge, Raleigh would be behind bars and stuck trading favours for cigarettes.

There were no pages of the Thievius Raccoonus in the safe. Sly went through everything again, just in case, and even patted down the corners.

Nothing.

He hadn't expected to find them so easily, but it was still a little disheartening.

 

* * *

 

Sly climbed out through another window. He was near the front of the rotting ship. Water had gathered in a hole, and there were crates and timber floating inside. There was also something that looked like a submarine.

Sly grinned.

 

* * *

 

"I'm back!"

Bentley startled, suddenly torn from his inner world of shapes and numbers and angles. The real world was a damp cave and a moist wool blanket around his shoulders, and somehow both less and more pleasant than the inner world.

"Sly! You're… you're back," he said, adjusting his glasses. Sly looked different, somehow. Energetic, excited, yes, and all of that was to be expected, but…

There was something about his eyes. Bentley couldn't put his finger on it.

Sly grinned, tapping his cane on the great machine floating in the water. "Look what I found, guys!"

"Is that a _submarine_?" Murray asked, sounding like his birthday had arrived early.

"Yeah. Found it at the ship and drove it back here. There are tons of crabs on the seafloor, you wouldn't believe it. I think they work for Raleigh; saw them carry these great hulking chests around. Also, a lot of pipes."

"Interesting," Bentley said, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully. "This could be useful for our purposes. Raleigh's machine must consume great quantities of water every second in order to fuel his storm and cool down the machinery. If we can… let's see, the coefficient…"

"Before you disappear to the science world, here's the blueprints you wanted," Sly said, and dropped a stack of papers next to Bentley. "I also found coded messages. And a horseshoe."

"Secret code, yes, I'll get to that and… what? Horseshoe?"

"Yeah, I don't really know either. But it was stashed in the safe, so I took it."

"I… see. Well, leave the codes to me. Just give me a while, there's a lot of, er, ground to cover."

"Do you want some tea to warm you up? Raleigh used to have a pretty amazing collection of it."

" _Used_ to? No, never mind. Of course you took it."

"You know me so well. Oi, Murray, we have any more of those butter biscuits left?"

 

* * *

 

"So, here's the plan," Bentley said, munching on the last biscuit. "The conditions are too terrible to attempt a direct assault at Raleigh's blimp. First, we need to incapacitate the storm machine, and cut off its sources of water and power. This must be done with care to avoid the possibility of the machinery overheating and damaging the hull. Ideally I would do this in person, but only Sly can move around the ship at will.

"After we are done with the machine, Raleigh will no doubt be forced to land and attempt to repair it. Sly will take this chance to perform a direct assault, defeat Raleigh and steal back the pages of Thievius Raccoonus. Should we need to make a quick getaway afterwards, I have no doubt that the submarine Sly _appropriated_ will prove to be useful."

"Any idea on how I'm supposed to destroy that machine? I know nothing about engineering."

"Well, a storm machine cannot afford to be delicate," Bentley said, drawing circles and arrows around the blueprints and adding comments in his wiry handwriting. Presumably they meant something for him; Sly didn't understand anything. "The mechanism must withstand considerable strain and high temperatures. Even so, all parts are likely replaced and maintained continuously. Brute force seems like the best option."

"Force, huh? I'm always up for some ransacking."

 

* * *

 

Raleigh's storm machine seemed to consist of nothing but spinning crankshafts, electrically charged spinning blades, and large containers of lava. Steam rose from the boiling seawater, obscuring the jagged edges, the rust and the loose metallurgy that plagued the machinery.

"This place seems like a huge health hazard," Sly said. The smell of burning metal and ozone invaded his nostrils. "I'm sensing a pattern. In fact, I'm choking on it."

"Well, atmospheric imbalances and a high humidity _are_ the necessary perquisites for a storm," Bentley said. Sly thought he could hear the faint sound of a pen scratching on paper in the background. "If you trace the spinning crankshaft, I'm sure you will the heart of the machine."

"Uh-huh. I'm on it."

Sly put away his binocucom and climbed up a rope that was almost burnt through in several places. He hoped it wasn't an omen of things to come.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Sly was quite sure his burns had developed burns. The faint smell of singed tail fur suggested he'd swung a little close to that last lava pit, and there was also that ominous smoke coming from the bottoms of his shoes.

But he'd found the heart of the machine.

The room looked a little like a massive smelter, spraying fire in a sea of lava. There was a single worker, a walrus who was sweating and welding something on one of the gears. Sly sneaked past him and dropped down to the metal scaffold.

There was a piston, moving up and down, up and down, up and down, so that a massive gear above it could rotate. It made for a decent platform, so Sly climbed on top of it and hauled himself on the spinning gear.

From this vantage point, he could see a contraption of a sort, across the room, that spun around with bewildering speed. Sly lifted his binocucom to take a closer look.

"Bentley, is that—?"

"That's it! You've found it, Sly! Now, you will need to find some heavy machinery."

On instinct, Sly glanced up. There was a heavy crane, sulking right above him. It looked heavy and capable of breaking things. It looked _mean_.

"I think I've got something that'll do the trick."

Sly jumped and hooked his cane on the catch, throwing his weight down. The crane lurched and _moved_ , slowly at first but gaining speed as it raced across the room. The spinning inferno of the storm machine loomed ever closer, like the gates of hell.

And then, finally, the crane crashed against the storm machine. It groaned and complained, staggering to a halt.

The silence was deafening.

And Sly remembered broken glass under his feet and blood seeping into an expensive rug, and something dark and satisfied bloomed inside his chest.

Revenge, Sly decided, was underrated.

 

* * *

 

Sly made his way out of the engine room, fur smoking and eyes stinging. He found himself in a room of metal walls and metal grating, suspended over yet more lava. The temperature was somehow even higher than in the engine room.

"This must be the power source," Bentley said, his voice faint with disturbance. "The temperature is _way_ off the charts. Better do this quickly, Sly, or we will run into some serious problems with the building steam pressure."

"My blisters aren't serious?" Sly said absently, mostly by habit.

"Uh, Sly? You all right there? You sounded a little…"

"I'm fine, pal," Sly said. "See you later."

"Wait–"

Sly cut off the connection and ventured deeper into the machine. There was more lava, and furnaces and some magma, and more metal patched together with scraps, and some machinery and volcanic rocks and _more_ lava. Workers were sweating down in their pits, shovelling coal and welding patches on the metal to keep it together.

Sly went past them, climbing pipes and swinging from hooks and edging along the ceiling, unseen by them all.

Raleigh's workers, Raleigh's machine, Raleigh's scheme. Probably some of it had been funded with his father's money.

And resentment burned, too.

Eventually Sly found a great room full of conveyor belts, moving lumps of coal into the main furnace. Sly wedged one chunk into a nook between the conveyor belt and its machinery. The belts whirred, bunched up against the obstruction and went still with a shower of sparks and a cloud of smoke.

There was no particular reason to do that. It wasn't important in the grander scheme of things. Sly did it because he felt like doing it.

A collection of pipes ran across the walls. Cooling water, Bentley had explained, in case the machine overheated and had to be doused.

Sly jammed one of Bentley's home-made explosives on the side a cluster of pipes and set the timer. He was out of the room before the bomb exploded.

And then, the ocean rushed in.

 

* * *

 

Murray twiddled his thumbs, whistling a broken tune. It was often dull, being the getaway driver. But Murray saw no reason to complain. The exciting parts generally made up for the boring ones.

He'd never have seen the ocean if he'd stayed in the village. There were all sorts of interesting fish in the water. Murray had seen a starfish, too. It had waved its tentacles at him.

"Sly! Answer me, Sly," Bentley said, his voice increasingly worried. "What are you doing? Have you flooded the power source yet? Sly!"

There was no answer. Bentley chewed his lip and turned to his laptop. The sound of his tapping filled the cave.

Murray, too, hoped that Sly would contact them soon. Bentley's thoughts were complicated, and usually it worked out for him because the things he thought about were complicated, too. But sometimes he just thought himself into a knot.

Sometimes, Sly disappeared because he had to do something on his own. He'd done that before, back when Bentley was at school and Murray and Sly shared the night.

But Murray didn't know how to put that in words, so he said nothing. Things would sort themselves out.

 

* * *

 

Sly made it to the deck just ahead of the first workers, and hid on the rooftop as they scrambled to evacuate.

Once the coast was clear, metaphorically, Sly found a ledge to perch on. He turned on his earpiece. Rain pelted his fur and evaporated into steam. "Bentley? How are things going back there?"

"Sly!" Bentley said. His relief was obvious, even through the bad connection. "Did you finish the job? Come back to the cave, so we can—"

"No," Sly said. "I can't wait. It's now or never. I'm going after Raleigh."

"B-but, Sly," Bentley protested. "The plan! Raleigh's blimp is still high up in the sky, there's no way up there!"

"I'll come up with something," Sly said. "I'll climb the chain if I have to."

That dark thing still burned in his gut. It made him twitchy, limbs trembling with nervous energy. He didn't want to calm down, he wanted to spend it.

Bentley was silent for a moment.

"Well, there _is_ one more option," he eventually said. "But it is a highly dangerous one. See that cannon over there?"

"Yeah? You're not suggesting I shoot myself out of it, are you?"

"Unfortunately, that's the only option," Bentley said. "On short notice," he added sourly.

"Now we're talking."

"You're really scaring me, man. Just so you know."

 

* * *

 

Following Bentley's instructions, Sly positioned the cannon. He lit the fuse, climbed in and stuffed his fingers in his ears.

And—

_BOOM_

There was the roar of the explosion. There was the smell of smoke. There were yellow and orange flames. And Sly was flying through the air.

"Sly! Are you all right?"

"Don't worry so much! This is amazing!"

"Amazingly dangerous!"

It was, of course. If Bentley's calculations had been just a little bit off, if the cannon had been damaged, if the wind had knocked him off course... his flight would have ended ignominiously.

But in his heart of hearts, Sly was a gambling man. This time, his luck held. He caught onto the blimp. The wind howled, trying to pry Sly off and strike him down, but he managed to hold on.

And then, the thief entered the building.

Well, entered the blimp, anyway.

Outside, the storm still raged against the windows, painting a raw scenery to the confrontation that must come.

 

* * *

 

Raleigh's blimp only had one, large room. It was crackling with electricity. The lights flickered on and off, reflecting off the surface of the water. Two massive fans spun at the back, creaking and whining.

Raleigh sat on his throne on the other end of the room. He looked furious: gnashing his bad, yellow teeth together and glaring with his beady little eyes and twirling his glass of brandy so fast that the liquid spilled over the edges. But he did not look particularly _surprised_.

He had been a nobleman once, Sly thought. Maybe he knew how these things worked. What goes around, comes around, and blood feuds and revenge are the enduring inheritance of blue blood. An eye for an eye and blood for blood… One of them would lose everything tonight.

"How delightful," Raleigh sneered, his voice suggesting he was anything but. "We have a guest. I _hate_ uninvited guests."

"Wipe out my family, steal what's mine, and you'd better expect company," Sly said, adjusting his grip on his cane.

"Oh, I am ever _so sorry_ ," Raleigh said with mock sincerity. " _Obviously_ , we should have done the job properly and snuffed you out as well. Please allow me to make amends."

He shot out his tongue and swallowed a bee. In an instant, his body swelled and deformed, becoming a great teeming mass of muscle. He leaped from his perch, and Sly dodged just in time to avoid being squashed like something small and furry stuck on the pavement.

Sly dodged another jump, then another and another and another. His blood was on fire, war drums beat in his chest. This, this was _it_. He would finally avenge his parents.

Raleigh's bloated form was powerful, but also slow andheavy. He was growing tired, every move taking more effort.

And Sly saw his chance. He swung the cane, slamming it squarely into Raleigh's stomach. Raleigh spewed out a fountain of water with a sputtering, bleating noise. Sly caught his jaw in the upswing, sending him flying through the room with a wet, heavy smack.

And then, just like that, it was over.

Raleigh hit the wall and landed in the water, making a muffled gurgle. Sly waited for a moment, leaped to the closest platform and prodded the still form with his cane. Raleigh didn't seem inclined to move.

Sly raised his cane to…

…to what?

Sly lowered his cane.

Was this all there was? A nightmare of ten years ago was nothing but a pathetic little heap of slime and skin, floating in the water. Revenge had burned so very brightly, had charred his guts and scalded his mind. And it had consumed, like all fires do. There seemed to be an empty place where it had burned.

There should have been _more_.

And… what now?

Sly turned on his earpiece

"Sly!" cried Bentley's voice. "Sly, are you all right? What happened? What about Raleigh? Did you defeat him? Where _are_ you?"

"I'm fine, Bentley. It's done."

"It… it is? That's… that's great! You need to get the pages of Thievius Raccoonus and get out of there. That blimp is descending at a decidedly alarming rate."

And there it was, that something more. He still had something to reclaim.

 

* * *

 

Raleigh was a traditionalist. In an age where connections and technology were everything, he had isolated himself in the middle of nowhere and, of all things, practised piracy. Even the security in Raleigh's ship was archaic, based more on mechanical contraptions than motion detectors or security cameras. The only exceptions had been the occasional laser beam or spotlight, thrown in with the attitude of someone half-heartedly trying to paint over that inconvenient burn mark in the kitchen wall.

Raleigh had also, from the look of it, spent the last ten years sitting on top of his hoard of trophies like a jealous dragon. Underneath his strange metallic throne was a safe. Inside it were pages, yellowed and old, their margins uneven like they had been ripped from a book.

Sly reached in and took out the pages of Thievius Raccoonus.

Something was caught in his throat. His hands trembled.

He should get out. The blimp was descending, and he'd worried his friends. He should read the pages later, somewhere safe.

But he might as well have tried to tell his heart to stop beating.

There were the notes of Drake Cooper, a contradictory soul who had written down detailed instructions for advanced combat manoeuvres despite his stated abhorrence of all violence. His signature move was a quick knock-out dive that left most targets stunned. He had signed his entries with exact dates—by the hour even—through years 1770 to 1779, but never a location.

Then, the disjointed, jumbled ramblings of Christopher Cooper, who had lived a fast, dangerous life in the streets of New York during the prohibition of 1920s. He had been infamous in the underworld, even for a Cooper, for brazenly mugging gangsters in broad daylight. Apparently his special trick was a modification to Drake's knock-out move, now used to both stun the target and rob them blind in one fell swoop.

And then, the careless, exuberant writings of Old Salomé 'Sally' Cooper, who had lived in Spain during the 16th century and made her name stealing Inca gold from the crown. She had apparently been possessed of a certain dramatic flair and had enjoyed _literally_ rolling her way out of trouble. She had written down many helpful hints for acrobatic manoeuvring. Her section ended abruptly, with no explanation added by whoever inherited the book.

Then, the occasionally incomprehensible notes of Dev Cooperinda from the 13th century India. In contrast to his grandiose name (derived from the Hindi word _deva_ _,_ representing "god"), he had been a humble man who had devoted much of his time to meditation and spiritual observations, which he had written down in thin, cramped Sanskrit. He was famed for his technique of slow motion, a meditative technique that sped up the user's perception of the surrounding world.

And, finally, the pages written by Rioichi Cooper who had, in fact, written quite a lot of them in tidy, meticulous kanji. There was an image of him, too, painted with a careful, flowing hand. A Japanese ink wash painting, sumi-e... Rioichi had probably painted it himself. An outsider wouldn't be allowed to even _see_ the pages of Thievius Raccoonus. Sly brushed his fingers across the ancient ink, trying to imagine it.

Once, his ancestor's hands had held these pages. And though the ink was old now, once it had been fresh and wet, left to dry so it would not smudge. Once upon a time, Rioichi Cooper had really lived. These pages were the proof.

Slowly, Sly began to smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted, because I am so done with this chapter.


End file.
